The Weapon Against Us
by hurricanelil11
Summary: The Dark Days are over, and the Capitol has taken complete control of Panem once again. This is the story of the first ever Hunger Games. There are no Careers, no mentors; each tribute inexperienced and essentially equal. When Freia Cowden, from District 12, is reaped, she has no idea what to expect.
1. District 12

**Yay, my second Hunger Games FanFiction story! I'm probably going to be much slower in updating this one than my last story because I have school now.  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins is the author. I did, however, create the characters and plot of this FanFiction myself.**

**The image is from ~AlzirrSwanheartStock on DeviantArt.  
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**The Weapon Against Us  
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"Freia, wake up," I hear a quiet voice whisper close to my ear, and I feel a soft shake of my shoulder. The house is pitch black as I open my eyes, and I shiver in the freezing cold, even under my blanket. But I know that I can't go back to sleep. My brother, Sam, is already wide awake, and will get impatient with me if I insist on a few more minutes of rest. Not that I have, ever; I know that the few hours before dawn are our only chance to get into the woods, which is our only somewhat reliable source of food.

I quietly slip on my clothes, worn-out shoes, and threadbare jacket, careful not to wake Grandpa and Grandma, who are still sleeping in the be next to the one Sam and I share. I hurry out the door, and Sam and I start walking down the street in the direction of the woods. The early morning air is cold and sharp on my face and in my throat, and my breath come out in white clouds. We walk close to the buildings, trying to stay in the shadows, out of the moonlight. The peacekeepers don't start patrolling the streets until 6 o'clock AM, when the first miners start trudging to work, but it's always good to be extra careful. Ever since the failed revolution almost a year ago, the Capitol has cracked down on the security, especially in District 12.

That's where I live—District 12—the farthest district from the Capitol, and the one most involved in the revolution. I have heard that the Capitol blames the uprising solely on us. I was born 14 years before the revolution, and my father named me Freia, which means "freedom." Even long before the districts rebelled, there was talk and plans of uprising, and my father was at the center of it all. The happiest I had ever seen him was in the evening, after he came back from the mines, discussing with Grandpa at the kitchen table possible ways to unite the districts. They would talk and talk, and the later they went, the more exaggerated my father's hand movements would get, the louder his voice would get. My mother wasn't really in on this, but I had seen her eyes light up when my father would tell her about his plans for life after the Capitol fell.

But neither of them would get to live these fantasies my father created. My parents were killed in a car accident when I was 10—a peacekeeper's van had skidded on some ice—and the rebellion had failed. Since then, the conditions in District 12 had gotten steadily worse. The food supplies dwindled because the Capitol kept sending less, public areas were blocked off, restricted, even bombed, curfews were set to keep rebels from plotting, until everyone looked like living skeletons. But the determination of the rebels was still going strong. Some District 12 citizens had figured out that the Capitol was using jabberjays—genetically engineered birds that can record and repeat human voices—to transport information from the rebels directly back to the Capitol. They formed a plan, and started to feed the Capitol lies. For a while, it looked like we would win and finally gain independence, but the districts lacked in the brute force the Capitol had, and eventually fell to an onslaught of guns, bombs, landmines, and other terrible things. At least we weren't completely destroyed like District 13, though.

It has been almost a year since the Capitol took total control again, and my life has never been the same. There is the rule that you aren't allowed to do anything that could possibly hint at a rebellion, and there is the unspoken rule that you basically aren't allowed to do anything at all. Most people visibly shake when they pass a peacekeeper in the streets, and abide by all the rules completely. And then there are the minority, like Sam and I, who break these new rules often, though we are very careful about it. Our morning trips to the woods are obviously illegal.

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**Please review! I want feedback to make me a better writer.**


	2. The Woods

There is no fence blocking the way to the woods; the pavement of the street just stops, and earth and trees take over. The peacekeepers don't think they have to even bother to worry about people sneaking out of the district—most are scared to step out of their doorways. But that just makes it easier for me and Sam. We follow the path that only we know to a small, rushing stream, and then follow that downhill until it widens, deepens, and the ground levels out to make a perfect fishing spot.

Before the rebellion, we didn't have to gather our own food. There was a marketplace in the main square, where people would set up tables and tents and sell food from personal gardens and such. But that was one of the first places to get bombed by the Capitol because it also became a meeting place for rebels, whose voices could easily be lost in the constant chatter. After that, the only thing we had to eat was the small ration of grain the Capitol issued to each family, which wasn't nearly enough, so Sam decided to risk going into the woods. He has never gotten caught, though there were some close calls in the early days, so eventually, he invited me along. In the months following the rebellion, I got very accustomed to the woods, and I feel almost more at home there than I do in my own house.

I dig out my makeshift fishing pole from under a log and stick a grub that I find in the wood onto the hook. I sit down on my usual boulder, and throw the line into the still water. I'm anticipating a longer stay today because it's so cold out, which means the fish are lazier.

"I'm going to check the snares," Sam tells me. A couple months ago, he taught himself how to set a snare, because eating fish and greenery every single day got very boring.

"Can you teach me how to make one?" I ask. Since then, the snares had become his priority, and all the fishing was left to me, and I wanted to do something a bit more exciting.

"Not today, Freia," Sam sighs.

"Please, please, please, please, please?" I whine. I'm just good at being the annoying little sister as I am at being Sam's partner in crime.

He laughs, and then says, "Maybe tomorrow." I'm satisfied with that answer though; it means he's just a little bit closer to doing what I want.

I sit on my boulder for about twenty minutes before I feel almost numb from the cold. No fish had bitten yet, not that I had really expected them to, but I pull the fishing line out, with the grub still intact. Trying to get warmth back into my system, I hop about a bit and blow into my hands to get my blood flowing. At this time of year—early spring—death from frostbite is really common. People are so relieved to see the first buds on the trees, that they pack away their winter coats, not remembering that temperatures still dip down well below freezing at night.

I interchange fishing and warming myself up again for about an hour before Sam comes back. I hold up the one measly little fish I'd caught, and he laughs and shows me two chubby squirrels he'd found in his traps.

"Now you _have_ to show me how to set a snare," I tell him.

"I guess I do," he replies, "soon."

I can see the sky lightening in the east, so I know that it's nearing dawn. We know we must get back to the house before it gets really light, so I stow my fishing pole back under the log, and Sam and I start walking quickly back the way we had come.

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**Don't worry, it gets more exciting. Chapter 3 is really important, so read on!**


	3. The Hunger Games

**In this chapter (second to last paragraph, the sentences that are in quotes), I include some sentences that appear at the beginning of The Hunger Games movie. They were NOT written by me.**

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We sneak in the back door of the standard, government-issued house each family is given just as Grandma starts stirring. A bit later, we are all seated around the kitchen table eating my little fish; the squirrels will be saved for lunch and dinner. Mealtimes used to be very different. Not that Sam isn't a good cook, but our mother was just amazing. She could take the most basic food—acorns, for instance—and create a fine dinner from it.

"I think there's a mandatory program on this morning," says Grandpa. It's Saturday, which means a day off for the miners and no school for the children. I used to like school, but now it's just a terrible reminder of our failed revolution—about half of my friends were killed in attacks during the uprising. Now we just do our work silently and watch the clock for the last bell because it's too sad to see all the empty seats around us in every classroom.

"What's it about?" I ask. A mandatory program means that we must all watch an announcement on the television directly from the Capitol. It's enforced, and not watching is against the law.

"Not sure. I guess we'll have to find out," he replies.

We finish eating, and Grandma helps clear away the tin dishes. She and Grandpa are getting pretty old, especially for District 12 citizens, where most die from starvation or exposure before they can even get close to being grandparents. Their black hair has turned white with age, but they still both have the sparkling, dark gray eyes that mark them as being from the Seam. My whole family is from the lower-class area of District 12, so we all have the distinguishable Seam look to us.

At a few minutes to 9 o'clock, Grandma, Grandpa, Sam, and I gather around the flat stretch of blank wall on which the automated projector will show the video of what ever the Capitol wants to tell us. Before the rebellion, we had this old, almost broken TV that didn't show much more than static, which gave us an excuse not to watch. But after the Capitol took over again, they installed these high-tech projectors in every single household. They switch on automatically, so there's no excuse not to watch.

On cue, I hear the soft click of the projector, and the room floods with blue light. The anthem of Panem plays, and then a female voice heavily affected with the Capitol accent begins to speak.

"Thank you all for kindly tuning in to our broadcast today!"

"As if we had a choice," grumbles Grandpa under his breath.

"We are bringing you an address straight from the office of the president." Then the screen switches to a shot of an organized desk. The president, President Niveus, walks into the room and stops behind the desk. He picks up a paper and begins to read.

"It has been nearly a year since the failed revolution of the districts. In the time that has passed, we, the Capitol of Panem, have brought peace, prosperity, and order back to the country. We have finally compromised with the appointed leaders of each district and have created a Treaty of Treason."

The president then goes on to reading the entire treaty out, which takes about ten extremely dull minutes. But then something he says catches my attention.

"In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and a female between the ages of 12 and 18 at a public 'reaping'. These tributes shall be delivered to the custody of the Capitol, and then transferred to a public arena, where they will fight to the death until a lone victor remains. Henceforth and forevermore this pageant shall be known as 'The Hunger Games'." Then the projector switches off.

I keep staring at the blank wall, unable to comprehend exactly what that all meant. The words "fight to the death," "12 and 18," and "Hunger Games" keep floating around in my mind, but don't make much sense yet. Then the full reality dawns on me: I could very well be one of these "tributes," since I'm 15, and I may have to kill children from other districts, and also one from District 12, if I want to stay alive myself. This is not a treaty, I think, it's a punishment, a torture, a weapon against us.


	4. Little Black Bear

Weeks go by, and eventually I stop thinking constantly about these new Hunger Games. I'm busy enough with my daily life: School wastes half of my day, Sam recently taught me how to set a snare, and Grandma has developed a bad cough. The days go by pretty much normally.

But one morning, I wake up before Sam, which is definitely not normal. He's the early bird, able to wake himself up at 4 o'clock in the morning without an alarm clock, and I usually need to be shaken awake. Today's Thursday, a school day, but we still have to go to the woods if we want any meals. I poke Sam until he stirs.

"Ha! Woke up before you!"

"Doesn't matter," he mumbles, "day off, today."

"Why?" I ask, confused.

"Today's the reaping," Sam answers. "They announced it at school yesterday. Don't you even listen to your teacher?"

"No."

"Of course not," he says, and pulls the blanket over his ears.

The reaping. I remember now that on this day exactly, one year ago, the Capitol declared its supreme leadership over the districts again. Today's the day two of my friends or maybe even myself will be hauled off to the Capitol to kill others and possibly die ourselves. There is no way I'm going back to sleep for the couple minutes I still have.

Eventually, Sam and our grandparents wake up, and we eat breakfast—which consists of boiled acorn mush and pine needle tea. Afterwards, I change into my only formal dress—plainly sewn out of deep red velvet—because I feel like this event calls for something nice.

"Let's go," says Sam when I'm finished changing. We live in the Seam, but District Twelve is so small that we can easily walk to town. Grandma and Grandpa hug us goodbye as we start out the door.

"Good luck, little black bear," Grandpa says to me. That's my nickname—little black bear, or sometimes just black bear or little bear. Grandpa came up with it after an incident when I was about seven years old. Wild animals are very common in the woods around the district, and sometimes they wander into the streets, not scared by the people.

One day, when I was walking home from school alone—Sam was sick that day—a giant black bear had strayed out of the woods. It was standing directly in between me and my house. I literally had ten more meters to go and I would have been safe inside the door, but the bear was blocking me. I was scared stiff, and just stared at the bear without doing anything, while it stared back at me. This went on for about five minutes, which seemed like eternity, until the bear looked away and slowly lumbered off.

Then I unfroze, walked to the door, and tried to push it open, but it wouldn't budge. Frightened that the bear would come back, I struggled with the door harder. Finally, Grandpa opened the door, took a look at me, and laughed heartily. "Well here's our little black bear!" he exclaimed. It had turned out that my whole family had thought that I was the bear trying to get into the house!

Eight years later, everybody still uses that nickname. In fact, ever since the end of the rebellion, it's all Grandpa ever calls me. Perhaps the name Freia has too much of a connection with the freedom we almost had.

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**Please review: tell me if you like the story so far, or if I can improve it in any ways.**


	5. Reaping

There is already a large crowd of children and teenagers milling about the center of town. Some of their parents and young siblings have also come, but they stand on the edges of the large, roped off sections of the square. I say hello to some of my friends from school, but mainly keep to myself, because I'm kind of nervous.

Suddenly, I feel a sharp prod on my back. I jump forwards, and quickly spin around to see who had pushed me. A short, but stocky peacekeeper was standing between Sam and me.

"Girls over there," he barks, and points to my right. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen," I answer nervously, rubbing my back.

"Fourth row from right," the peacekeeper says, and starts to drag me by the arm in that direction.

"Bye!" I yell back to Sam. "Good luck!"

"You too," he says. I'm not really sure if my "good luck" means getting chosen, or not.

As soon as I am situated in the fifteen-year-old girls' row, I see a strange-looking woman climbing up the steps of the Justice Building, which is a large, columned, marble building used for most legal transactions. Some of it was blown up and destroyed during the rebellion, which is why it's mostly under scaffolding now.

The chattering crowd falls silent when the woman reaches the center of the stage at the top of the steps, but mainly because of her two bodyguards—giant peacekeepers with machine guns. Also, what she's wearing is completely ridiculous: A neon blue shirt and jacket with an enormous, pastel pink, feather boa wrapped around her neck. The woman clears her throat into the microphone and begins to talk.

"Good morning citizens of District 12! My name is Decima DeCanter, and I am District 12's representative and escort. Welcome everyone to the first annual reaping, but before we begin, your mayor would like to say a few words!"

Decima steps away from the microphone, and the mayor—an ancient man with hearing problems, who was appointed by the Capitol a year ago—begins to read out the Treaty of Treason from a scroll. He speaks in a high, wavery voice, which is almost impossible to hear, so I just tune out what he's saying.

Finally, Decima comes back to the microphone, and starts to speak again. "And now," she says, "we will chose our two lucky tributes of District 12! Each of your names has been written on at least one slip of paper. Twelve-year-olds have their names entered once, thirteen-year-olds twice, fourteen-year-olds three times, and so on."

I figure out that my name is entered four times, and Sam's is entered nine. I can tell everyone whose age she didn't mention is also quickly doing the math in their mind or on their fingers.

Decima continues, "Now, I'm going to choose a piece of paper from one of the glass bowls," she says, and points to two large, blown glass bowls sitting on a stand to one side of the stage, "and I would like for whoever's name it is to come up to the stage. Ladies first, and may the odds be _ever _in your favor!"

I can feel all the suspense in the air. Everyone is looking intently at Decima as she teeters over to the bowls on impossibly high heels. My hands are clenched around fistfuls of the fabric of my red dress, but I'm not even sure what to be nervous about. Surely I could survive twenty-three other children—they're all around my age anyway. The "odds" Decima mentioned are one in twenty-four, which isn't all that bad. Still, this is the Capitol we're talking about, so I have no idea what to expect.

Decima pulls a slip of white paper out of a bowl, walks back over to the microphone, opens the slip, and reads the name that was written on it. "Freia Cowden."

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**For those of you who don't know because you haven't read my other story, I love naming characters so that their names mean something. Decima means tenth in Latin, and in ancient Rome, many children were named after their order of birth. This means that Decima's father, Decimus (because girls took the feminine form of their father's name) was the tenth child in his family. I used Decima's name to show how much better off the Capitol is than the districts if people could afford to have ten children.**


	6. Storage Room

"Freia? Freia Cowden, are you here?" Decima is asking. "Please come up to the stage. Freia Cowden?" And finally, I realize that she's calling my name. I quickly push my way through the row of other fifteen-year-old girls, and start jogging up the steps of the Justice Building towards Decima.

"Here!" I call. "I'm coming." I reach the top of the steps, and Decima leads me to one side of the microphone.

"Now," says Decima into the microphone, "you may not know, but we have a policy of volunteering. Although we have already chosen our female tribute from this district, any other female within the eligible age range may volunteer for the reaped tribute and will compete in the Games in their place. Are there any volunteers?" The crowd is silent.

"All right then," says Decima enthusiastically, "let's have a big round of applause for our female tribute, Freia Cowden!" There is some clapping, but I think most people are unsure of whether this is a happy event or not—just like I am.

"Now for our male tribute!" pipes up Decima, and she walks over to the second bowl and pulls out a slip. She calls out the name, "Ellis Banik," and a trembling twelve-year-old joins me on the stage. We shake hands, the crowd claps a bit on Decima's command, and then we are escorted into the Justice Building.

I'm directed into a small room by one of Decima's armed bodyguards.

"You'll have five minutes to talk with family and friends," he says before he shuts the door. The room is tiny, with only one bench in the corner and a dirty window looking out onto the square, and the varnish on the dusty windowsill is flaking off. This room seems to have been a storage area in a past life and obviously hasn't been taken care of properly.

Just then, the door bursts open, and Sam and our grandparents are standing in the doorway.

"Sorry, we're late, I had to run home to get Grandma and Grandpa," says Sam, as they come over and hug me. Then I notice that Grandma has started to cry. She's covering her face with her handkerchief, trying to hide the tears, but she's obviously very distressed.

"Grandma, it's okay," I say, trying to comfort her, "I'm just going to be away for a bit, I'll come back soon."

"But," she whispers, "but what if I never see you again? What if you never come back?"

I start to reassure her again that I will see her. How long can the Hunger Games last anyway? A couple weeks at the most—the Capitol wouldn't want to waste too much of its time with twenty-four children from the districts. But Grandpa cuts me off.

"No," he says, "this is the Capitol we're dealing with. You don't have _any_ idea what they're up to—none of us do. Trust me, the only way to survive is not to trust any of _them_." I stare into his deep gray eyes, and I do understand. By "them," I know that he means the Capitol, whom no one can predict.

"Time's up," yells a voice from the doorway. Grandma bursts into a fresh round of tears, which she doesn't try to hide this time, and hurries out the door. Grandpa pats my shoulder and follows her.

"Good luck, Freia," says Sam, and he, too, walks out the door of the tiny room. The only things I can hear are the distant voices of peacekeepers yelling commands, and once in a while the high-pitched voice of Decima DeCanter. Other than that, it's completely silent in here. And for the first time, I wonder if what Grandma said was right—this was really the last time I would see any of them.


	7. The Train Ride

**I actually wrote this chapter yesterday, but I wasn't able to add it because I lost internet service because of Hurricane Sandy. But this hurricane also means no school for a week! Yay!  
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A few minutes later, we are all aboard the train to the Capitol. The station in District 12 has only been used for the old, slow coal trains that transport the coal we mine to the Capitol, and the bare necessities, such as grain, back to us. So I was surprised to see a high-speed, silver Capitol-made train waiting for us on the tracks. According to Decima, it travels over 400 kilometers per hour, and since District 12 is the farthest district away, we'll reach the Capitol sometime in the afternoon tomorrow.

Decima leads me and the other tribute, Ellis, to a car. It has a plain table in the center with three chairs, all with small cushions on the seats, surrounding it. There is a couch against one wall that's facing a television mounted on the opposite wall. All along the train walls are windows, though I only see blurs of green and blue through them we are traveling so fast.

"You're rooms are through that door," Decima tells us, pointing to the opposite end of the car. "Wear anything in the closet, order any food, but be out in time for dinner at 6 o'clock!"

Ellis and I walk through the door, and come to a long hallway. On one side, there's a door with a plaque that says 12F on it. That must be mine, so I open the door and walk in. The room is plain—white walls, fluffy white carpet, a metal-framed bed with white sheets and a white blanket, and a metal bedside table with a lamp.

I don't even notice the doors until I accidentally push a button on the wall, which silently slides open to reveal a bathroom. I press the button again the hidden door closes so tightly I can't see its outline. Then I make a point of investigating the whole room in search of buttons. I find one that opens a walk-in closet equipped with every item of clothing I need and a lot that I have no idea when I would ever need. Another button, which is located by the head of the bed, brings food to you immediately if you just whisper what you want. By accident, a steaming hot platter of muttonchops was delivered to me because I had exclaimed "a button" when I had found that particular one.

I eat the meat while staring out the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the passing districts. It hasn't been that long since we boarded the train, so maybe we're passing through District 11 or 10 as of now. I dispose of the bones from the muttonchops in a waste chute that opens by means of another button. I lick my fingers carefully to get rid of all the grease, and then go take a closer look at my closet.

All the clothes are arranged by type and color. There are dresses ranging from evening gowns to sundresses hanging in a rainbow on the top rack. Shirts and sweaters are on the rack below them, along with pants. There is a stack of drawers containing undergarments, some so lacy that they're barely there at all. A rack of shoes hangs from the back wall holding maybe twenty pairs.

I stay in my red velvet dress, though. For some reason, I just don't think I can touch any of these clothes. They're too well ironed, folded, hung, and organized, and I'm afraid of messing this perfect closet up. Someone took time to create this wardrobe, and by wearing something I feel like I'd taint the entire ensemble. In fact—it's the same way with everything in this room. The way everything is white; it's like the tiniest speck of dust would ruin it.

Suddenly, I'm really tired, so I crawl under the covers of the bed, careful not to wrinkle the sheets too much. The mattress is so soft, that I feel like I'm floating on a cloud—it's a big difference from the mattress back home in District 12, where half the springs were poking out of the fabric already. I'd never really realized how uncomfortable that one was until now, though. I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.

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**Review, please!**


	8. Schedule at Dinner

It seem like only a few seconds have passed when I hear Decima knocking on my door, calling, "Freia, dinnertime!" I open my eyes into slits—I really want to keep sleeping, but Decima did tell me I'd have to be out by dinner. I crawl out of bed, smooth my dress, which I had slept in, and run a hand through my hair. My hair is annoying sometimes—although it's straight, it gets tangled so easily that I have rats' nests all the time. I make the bed, which is something I almost never do at home, because leaving the covers messy would be so out of place in this perfect room.

When I come into the main car, Decima and Ellis are already seated at the table. There is a huge feast in front of them, and Ellis's eyes are bugging out of his head. My stomach growls, too, even though I already ate just a few hours ago. I have never seen so much food in one place at one time.

"Now that we're all here," says Decima as I sit down in a chair, "we have a lot to talk about. This is everyone's first Hunger Games, so I know you'll have many questions. I'm going to tell you about everything that's scheduled to happen from when we reach the Capitol until the start of the Games. First, we will all get settled in our quarters at the Training Center, where you will stay for…"

She talks on and on about what we're going to do to prepare for the Hunger Games, but I can't concentrate any longer with all the food that's just sitting in front of me. The aroma of a platter of marinated steak is filling my nostrils, and the sight of a stack of corn on the cob drizzled with butter makes my mouth water.

Decima laughs. "Well, I see neither of you is going to be able to concentrate until you eat. We'll discuss the rest of your schedule after dinner."

I grab a serving utensil and load my plate with everything in reach, and I see that Ellis is doing the same. He's from the merchant area of District 12—I can tell by his blond hair and blue eyes—but even having that status doesn't guarantee a full belly. No one in District 12 gets enough to eat. I spend the next few minutes stuffing my face with food, until Decima clears her throat.

"There's one important thing I want you two to remember," she says. "No matter what anyone tells you, District 12 is no worse than any other district. Just because the others are closer to the Capitol doesn't make them more likely to win the Hunger Games."

I look at her strangely. That's a really weird thing to hear from a citizen of the Capitol. But Decima seemed so serious when she said it, and I want to believe she's telling the truth, but I can't be totally sure because she is, after all, from the Capitol.

Just then, the door to our train car slides open, and a group of young people in white tunics walk silently in. Some of them pick up the remains of our dinner, and take them away, while the others deliver plates of different deserts. While I eat macaroons and Ellis chews on a sticky roll of some sort, Decima explains to us what we're going to do for the next week leading up the actual Games.

She's up to telling us about training when she asks, "What are you two's strengths?" We both stare at her blankly. I have no idea what kind of answer she wants.

"I mean," Decima continues, "what are your talents? Can you fight; are you fast? Strengths you can use in the arena, that kind of stuff."

I take that to mean can we kill other people. I have an advantage then, because of my trips to the woods. Sam has taught me a couple snares which are useful for catching small animals, I can make a good fire quickly, I'm fairly good with a knife—sometimes if an animal is trapped but still struggling, having a knife handy helps—and I can run fast. I don't say any of this out loud, though, except the last one. Who knows who could overhear?

Ellis says that he's a fair runner, too, and Decima claps her hands together and tells us, "Good, good! We can work with that, plus you'll have time to learn even more skills when we reach the Capitol tomorrow."

The Capitol. I've never actually been there, and I don't know if I really want to.


	9. Makeover

**Thanks for all the reviews so far!**

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We arrive at the Capitol earlier than expected, and we're shown off of the train and to our rooms at the Training Center. The floors are all numbered, and District 12 stays on the top floor. My room is almost identical to the one on the train. Same white walls, bed, carpet, closet. The only differences are a small window looking out over the center of the Capitol city, and a larger bathroom. But I can't stay in here for long; I have to go meet my prep team and stylist.

Albina, Rufus, and Cloaca: the names of the three members of my prep team. Their names are as silly as their appearances. The woman with the golden hair and bright red lipstick tells me, "I used to be called Callicratia, but that's such a long, confusing name, so I changed it to Cloaca. I think "Cloaca" is so much more, more…_me_!" The two others, Albina, a tall, thin woman with ankle length, white hair, and Rufus, a red-haired man who was about two feet shorter than her, nod in agreement with Cloaca.

"It was a good decision," Rufus says to me, "much better than when she decided to dye her eyes silver."

Over the course of about two hours, they strip me of all my body hair, thoroughly scrub me down with violet scented soap, clip, file, and polish my nails, brush my knotted hair, and draw on a new face with makeup. I can see in the mirror that I look beautiful and perfect, and nothing like myself. But the prep team looks at my travel-stained dark red, velvet dress with disgust.

"Didn't you get a whole new wardrobe on the train?" asks Albina. "That's what I heard at least."

"Um, yeah," I answer, "but I didn't really want to wear anything."

Now they all look at me with the same expressions that they were eyeing my dress with.

"Well!" exclaims Rufus. "That will have to change. Your stylist, Lucius, will make sure of that. In fact, he'll be here in just a moment."

They leave, and I pull on a robe, feeling self-conscious. I had to have all my beauty treatments done naked, and my prep team didn't seem to mind, but I did. I don't want people from the Capitol staring at my naked body even if they're just beautifying me.

As I finish tying the robe around me, the door to the styling room opens, and a man, who must be Lucius, walks in. Although not as outgoing appearance wise as Albina, Rufus, and Cloaca, Lucius as chosen the oddest colors to combine into an outfit. He's wearing sky blue skinny jeans, a red and pink striped shirt, and a vest in a color I can only describe as cow manure.

"Ah, District 12," he says as he comes closer to me, "I'll get you prepared for the Opening Ceremonies in no time." The Opening Ceremonies are tonight, which means that Ellis and I are to be dressed up and paraded around the city in chariots for all the Capitol citizens to see.

Lucius continues, "First, I'll have to get some measurements, and then we'll discuss your outfit." He records every measurement of my body that's possible, including some that I have no idea what he would use for, like the fact that the length of the bottom of my earlobe to the end of my shoulder is 20.4 centimeters. When he's done measuring me, we sit at a small, round table next to a window with a view of the central streets of the Capitol and eat lunch, which consists of chicken wings, white rice in a sauce I've never tasted before, and pumpkin juice.

"So," says Lucius, "this is what you're going to wear."

* * *

**I will explain all the names now.**

**Albina: This comes from the Latin adjective "albus, -a, -um," meaning white. As you've read, Albina has white hair (dyed of course, she's not old).  
**

**Rufus: This is a Latin name meaning "red-haired."  
**

**Cloaca (Callicratia): The name Callicratia is one I made up; it's a Latinized version of the Greek name "Kallikrates," meaning "strong beauty." The story with my character Cloaca/Callicratia is that she is not very smart, so she didn't know the meaning of her real name, or of the new one she gave herself. Since "Callicratia" is very complex, she changed it to "Cloaca," which literally means "sewer" in Latin, but also sounds like a nice, feminine name.  
**

**Lucius: This name is related to the name "Lucia." Saint Lucia, who had had her eyes gouged out, became a patron saint for the blind. My character, Lucius, happens to be color blind, which becomes a real problem for Freia later on!  
**


	10. Diamonds Within Coal

"No, no, no," complains Decima. "I don't know what he was thinking dressing you in this!" She tugs at the fabric of my dress disappointedly.

It is almost time for the Opening Ceremonies to start, but we are in disaster mode. Lucius, it turns out, is color blind, not to mention the fact that he has no fashion sense whatsoever. I'm dressed in a black, silk dress, with a full skirt and no sleeves. Starting slightly below the neckline, tiny rhinestones have been attached to the fabric. They cluster heavily at my waistline, and then spread out farther down the skirt.

It looked fine, until Lucius started stitching on the first bow. Complaining that my look was too plain, he whipped out a roll of rainbow silk, and stitched on gigantic bows of the stuff in random places of the dress. He must have talked with Ellis's stylist because Ellis has a bow tied around his neck, and it looks like he's having trouble breathing.

Decima sighs and shakes her head. "I knew it," she says, "they gave the worst stylists to District 12. I'll just have to do something about this. Hold still." She then takes out a nail file from her handbag and starts sawing away at the thread holding one of the bows to my dress.

We are standing in a big room full of horses, chariots, and other tributes, and it's kind of embarrassing when everyone is looking at me having my dress taken apart. A tall boy in an entirely blue outfit laughs and points, but his district partner, a girl who looks about my age, gives an understanding look to me. She's dressed as a giant guppy-like fish. They must be District 4.

"Everyone in your chariots!" says a voice projected across the room. Decima curses, and starts sawing away with her nail file even faster. Ellis has followed suit, and takes off his neck bow. He climbs onto our chariot, which is pulled by one brown horse and one black horse—another sign of Lucius's incompetence in color—and looks nervous.

The last bow finally comes off right as District 1 is announced, and the horses start inching forwards. I jump onto the chariot beside Ellis, and from behind us, Decima waves and shouts, "You both look great now; I know you'll do just fine!"

Now that I think about it, Lucius's idea for my outfit was pretty good, originally. The black fabric of the dress represents coal, and the rhinestones are diamonds. It's true that if enough pressure is applied to coal, it turns into diamond, which is so much prettier than plain old coal. And that's what Ellis and I are, as the tributes from District 12, we are the diamonds selected from the coalmines, and we will sparkle at these Hunger Games.

We reach the archway to the city streets, and a voice yells, "District 12!" The lights are blinding for the first few seconds as expected, and I can't see anything. But then they stay that way, which doesn't make sense. Then I realize that they are reflecting off the rhinestones on my dress and on Ellis's shirt. We are creating a rainbow of light in the darkening sky of the evening.

I can only catch glimpses of the cheering crowd, but they all look as ridiculous as my prep team and stylist.

After parading throughout the entire city, the horses stop in the city circle and form a half ring around a podium. The wild cheering of the crowd is silenced as the national anthem of Panem starts to play. We all have to stand for this, not that I could have sat down in this dress, though. Then the president steps up to the podium and gives a speech welcoming us—the first ever tributes in the first ever Hunger Games.

"And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor," he closes his speech with. That's funny, I'm sure I heard Decima say the same thing at the reaping. Maybe it's the trademark saying of the Games.

As we travel back to the Training Center, I can see that District 12 is definitely one of the best-dressed districts—only due to Decima's last minute repairs, though. The District 1 tributes are actually giving us dirty looks as our chariots pass by each other as we circle out of the area around the podium. We have literally outshone them, and they were also dressed in rhinestones.

Decima congratulates us when we step out of the chariot back in the Training Center, the prep team is bouncing up and down trying to look out of the archway in search of important Capitol people who might notice them, and Lucius grumbles, "You would have looked a thousand times better with bows…."


	11. Elevator

Apparently, the job of escort is very hard. Since there are no mentors this year, Decima has to do everything, including creating strategies for Ellis and me, organizing sponsors, chaperoning us places, ordering meals, making sure the prep team is stocked with beauty supplies, and in my case, making sure Lucius doesn't make me look completely ridiculous. I have learned all of this over breakfast listening to Decima rant on and on about her troubles.

"And you two have training today!" she exclaims. "I have to get you downstairs to the training room at 10 o'clock sharp."

We quickly finish breakfast, and Decima hurries us to the elevator. On the way down to the basement, the elevator stops at two other floors, six, and four, and the District 6 and 4 tributes with their escorts, board. The elevator is big enough for all of us to fit comfortably, but that doesn't take away from the awkward tension between everyone. The District 6 tributes both look slightly younger than me, and they are almost cowering behind their escort, a large lady in a tightly fitting pink dress. The District 4 tributes consist of the boy who laughed at my costume last night, and the girl dressed as a fish. We make eye contact, and she smiles at me.

The escorts of the other two districts are tittering quietly to each other, and I can kind of make out what they are saying.

"Poor Decima," says the chubby one in the pink dress, "stuck with District 12. I thought I was unlucky with District 6 until I heard about her!"

The other escort, who has blue and green streaks in her hair, giggles and says, "Her reputation is completely _ruined_. I don't know if she'll even get invited to the Presidential Ball this year."

"Well she's entitled to an invitation because she _is _still an escort."

Then they look at each other, laugh, and say in unison, "Barely!"

I glance at Decima, but she is staring straight ahead at the array of buttons on the elevator wall. I know she can hear this, but is choosing to ignore it. Even though she's a Capitol citizen, I can't help but feel bad for her. Like she had said, District 12 shouldn't be considered any worse than the other districts.

Finally, the doors open with a bing, and we step out into a huge gym area. There are a few tributes milling around already, but we are among the first to arrive. Decima bids us goodbye and tells us that we'll do great today. I feel sorry for her seeing as she has to endure the elevator ride back up the building with the two other escorts. I stay in the same place, unsure of what to do now. Then I hear a voice from behind me.

"Hi."

I turn around; it's the girl from District 4.

"I'm Litta," she says.

"Freia," I answer. "From District 12, although you probably already know that."

"Yeah," admits Litta, "and you looked much better without the bows."

Just at that moment, a loud voice calls from the center of the room. "All tributes please gather around me. We will begin the first training session shortly." Litta and I walk over to the woman who was speaking. Soon all the tributes are spread in a circle around her.

"My name is Valia," she says, "and I am going to oversee your training sessions. First things first, I need to explain some rules to you. These training sessions will take place over three days, and they lead up to your private session with the Gamemakers, who will rate you on a scale of 0 to 12 based on how much potential you show. As of now, you may learn any new skill available and practice it. But—now listen carefully; this is important—there is no fighting with other tributes, even in practice. There are instructors available if you want to practice. You will report to the cafeteria for lunch at 1 o'clock, and leave at 5 o'clock to have dinner upstairs in you district's quarters. That's about it; you may now start training!"

* * *

**I felt like Decima was kind of shallow, so I added this scene in the elevator to deepen her character. She's not a normal Capitol citizen!**

**Please review.  
**


	12. Strengths and Weaknesses

**I've been able to write a lot of chapters today! Days off from school leave me with too much time on my hands.**

* * *

"Where should we start?" asks Litta. I guess we're friends now, not that I mind, I do need someone to talk to around here. Ellis is very quiet, so he's not really good company.

"Let's learn how to make a fire." I'm pretty good at starting a fire with matches, but I've always wanted to learn how to do it without them.

"Sure," Litta answers, and we walk over to the fire-starting station, which is located against the wall of the gym next to the plant and fungus identifying station. The instructor there shows us how to start a fire with flint, which is a lot harder than I expected. It takes us a long time to get our fires started, but that gives us time to talk.

I learn that Litta lives by the seashore in District 4, and that her father is a fisherman, and her mother is a teacher at her local school. She has a twin sister named Maria, who is identical to her—Litta has wavy, brown hair and sea-green eyes set in a freckled face. They're both 15, the same age as I am.

I comment on how I like they're names—like the names of people in the Capitol, I've never heard them before. But Litta says, "Oh, they're both pretty common names in District 4. 'Litta' means seashore, and 'Maria' means ocean." Then she asks, "What does your name mean? It's really pretty."

This isn't really something I want to say out loud here in the Capitol due to its connections to the rebellion, but I glance around and see that our station's instructor is busy teaching another tribute how to light a fire, so I won't be overheard. "It means freedom," I whisper.

Litta's eyes go wide in surprise, but understanding. "Wow…. My parents wouldn't dare name me something like that."

Over the next few days, Litta and I visit almost every station that's offered. We learn sword fighting, rock climbing, knots, throwing, and much more. It's nice to have a friend. On the last day, at lunch, Litta asks me, "So what do you think you're going to show the Gamemakers tomorrow?"

I honestly haven't thought a bit about that. "I'm not sure," I answer, "Maybe something with knives."

"I have no idea what to do," Litta says. "I'm not good at anything we've tried yet."

"Yes you are," I say, but more out of politeness than truth. Litta was average at most of the skills—she didn't have a specific talent for any—but she wasn't exactly _bad _either.

Litta sighs; I guess she can tell I wasn't completely truthful. "I wish I could show them that I can swim." Right—I almost forgot that District 4 was surrounded by water. Swimming must be a second nature for her. "We were the best swimmers of our age group," Litta goes on to explain. I guess the "we" means her and Maria. "If Maria won one race, she'd let me win the next, and then I'd let her win the following one. But either way, it was on of us that won. We were practically famous."

Litta trails off, and I'm surprised to find tears in her eyes. "It's okay," I say to comfort her.

But then she starts crying even harder. "No, no; it's not okay," Litta wails. "I'm never going to see her again!"

"Yes you will," I assure her. "After the Games are over, you'll go back home to District 4, and you'll see your whole family, and you'll get to swim whenever you want."

Litta looks at me sadly. "Freia, don't you remember what we're here for?" she asks. "Once we go into that arena, only one of us comes out. And I'm pretty sure it's not going to be me."

We look at each other, and I know that she's probably right. "I could be you," I try, but Litta shakes her head. She's already given up.

After that, we eat in silence. For the rest of the day, I try to find skills for us to learn that don't have any connection to the water. Stuff like wrestling and camouflage that won't remind Litta of District 4 or of her twin sister, Maria.

* * *

**Both Litta's and Maria's names come from Latin words (I'm learning Latin now, so a lot of the names I make up come from Latin). "Litta" comes from "littus, littoris," and "Maria" comes from "mare, maris." Litta has already explained their meanings in this chapter. Also, just so you don't get confused, "Litta" is pronounced "LEE-tuh."  
**


	13. Test of Skill

The day arrives of our private training sessions with the Gamemakers. Our scores will be televised tonight, and tomorrow we will be interviewed. Decima has told me that getting a good score will be really important because it will determine how many initial sponsors I get. In the Games, the sponsors can buy me the things I desperately need, but can't get, but they won't give any money if they don't think I have a chance of winning.

All the tributes head to the training center as usual, but we are then ushered to the cafeteria, where we will wait our turn to be judged. Being the District 12 female, I am slated to go last. At least that gives me time to actually think of what I'm going to show the Gamemakers.

The minutes slowly tick by, and the group of tributes grows smaller and smaller as everybody is called, one-by-one, into the training gym. Litta is relatively one of the first to go, and I give her a thumbs up as she walks out. She gives a melancholy smile in return. I really do hope she actually tries to do well.

Eventually, it's just me and Ellis left. Then they call his name.

"Good luck," I tell him as he leaves.

"You too," responds Ellis.

A few minutes later, a voice calls, "Freia Cowden, District 12 female!" I still haven't thought of anything to do, but maybe inspiration will hit me on the spot. I walk into the training room, and see that the bleachers that surround the floor are not empty anymore. There are about twenty-or-so Gamemakers filling the seats and watching me.

I probably only stand motionless staring into space for a couple seconds, but it feels like eternity before I notice the large dumbbell leaning against the far wall. That dumbbell is probably about 30 or 40 pounds, I think, heavy enough to kill a small animal. Then an idea does strike: snares.

Over the course of about 10 minutes, I make a variety of different snares—all of which Sam had taught me. With the dumbbell and a couple of sticks from the fire making station, I create a figure four snare. With some rope, I tie a noose and make a twitch-up snare. After I'm done, I have 7 different traps.

Feeling like this still isn't enough, I grab a throwing knife from a table, and hurl it at a dummy. It sticks into the arm. I swipe up some more knives into my arms, and throw them one after another, until I'm hitting the heart or the head each time. I have to stop when I run out of knives, and I realize that I'm completely out of breath.

I glance up at the Gamemakers, who are nodding their heads and scribbling stuff into little notebooks. One speaks into a microphone. "Thank you, you are dismissed." I walk to the elevator feeling very happy—I think I did a good job.

When I reach the twelfth floor, I see Decima, Lucius, my prep team, and Ellis's stylist and prep team all sitting around the table in the common room. Decima jumps up to greet me.

"How did you do?" she asks. "What did you show them?"

I gladly recount my session with the Gamemakers in detail, being so proud of it.

"Good job, good job," congratulates Decima, and then she whispers into my ear, "By the way, I've spoken to Lucius, who will now show all of his designs to me _before_ he dresses you."

"Thanks," I say to her. Then I notice that someone is missing. "Where's Ellis?" I ask.

Everyone starts to look a bit uncomfortable. "He's in his room," says Cloaca.

"Not feeling well," says Rufus. I get the feeling they're not telling me the whole truth.

Finally, Albina says, "He didn't show the Gamemakers anything. From the little that he told us, it seems like he walked into the room and was paralyzed out of fright for ten minutes."

"Oh," I say, and feel bad that I ranted on about my successes, and didn't think about what Ellis might have been feeling. It would have been worse if he was in the room, though.

Tonight, they televise our scores. Mine seems secure, but I'm worried for Ellis and Litta.


	14. Rooftop

We are all sitting around the TV on a giant, over-stuffed couch. Ellis finally comes out of his room, but only after Decima threatens him with no breakfast the next morning. His eyes are red and puffy, so I we can all tell he'd been crying. Ellis slumps down on the couch as far away from me as possible, and I get the feeling that he did hear what I had said about my accomplishments.

They show the training scores in order of the districts, which means we are last, as always. A simple headshot of each tribute, which was taken on the day we arrived in the Capitol, pops up on the screen, and then their score flashes next to it. Litta manages to get a 6, making me think that she really did try to do well in her training session. But her district partner, the one who made fun of my chariot parade dress, scores a 9.

The districts go by, with most tributes scoring in the 3-6 range, with the occasional lower or higher score, until it's District 12's turn. I score a 9. It's the highest score of the night tied with the boy from District 4 and the boy from 7. I try not to show my pride for Ellis's sake, because after they show my score, Ellis's score of 1 comes up on the screen. After the TV turns off, Ellis shuffles back to his room without saying a word.

"Well," says Decima, trying to end the awkward silence, "You should get a good night's sleep. You have interviews tomorrow!"

I do sleep well, and the morning comes all to soon. Today, I'm scheduled for half a day with Decima to work on the content of my interview and presentation. I get the morning, because Ellis isn't feeling well, so I will have the afternoon to do whatever I want.

For the first two hours, Decima teaches me how to walk in a long, evening dress and high heels. "Just wait until you see your outfit!" she exclaims. "Lucius actually designed something good this time. All I had to change were the shoes—the ones he wanted you to wear had 30 centimeter heels!" I learn correct posture, and how not to slump when I sit down—which apparently I always do.

The next two hours are important—we have to decide my attitude at the interview. It appears that Decima had already made a long list of possible angles I could take. But then she looks at me and scribbles most of them out. "We could go for strength because of your high training score, but you don't really look the part," she brainstorms out loud. "Or we could do sexy, if only your hair would cooperate." She finally settles on having me talk about my family back in District 12. I am going to try to relate each question to my grandparents or brother, to make the audience feel bad about how I left them behind.

That seems like a good idea, it's something I can talk about, but I do have to be careful about not giving any information away. I can't tell them that Sam taught me all I needed to know to get a good score in training because it's illegal to hunt in the woods, I can't tell them how involved Grandpa was in the revolution because they are still hunting down those people. One tiny slip, and I just know something bad will happen either to me or my family.

After my preparation session, I don't have anything to do. I don't want to stay cooped up in my room for four hours, so I slip out the door of the District 12 quarters. I don't think I'm allowed to wander the halls of the Training Center building, but I'm used to doing illegal things. Plus, they must need to have all twenty-four tributes to take part in the Hunger Games, so they can't arrest or kill me yet.

Anyway, the halls are completely deserted, so I don't run into anyone I don't want to meet. I see a bright light coming from a window on a door at the end of the hallway. Curious, I walk towards it and open the door. Brilliant afternoon sunlight floods into the building, and when I can open my eyes again, I see that I have found a balcony of some sort. No, not a balcony, a rooftop.

There's something different about this area from the rest of the Training Center, though. Like my room on the train, the design of all the Capitol rooms and hallways is perfect. Perfectly clean, perfectly white, perfectly everything. Not a thing is out of place, and everything undesirable to look at is hidden. This roof is obviously not a place the Capitol wants anyone to see. The ground is made of gray cement, and there are large, sooty, pipes arching out of it like serpents from the sea.

I sit under one of these pipes, and draw my knees up to my chest. From my vantage point, I can see long lines of Capitol citizens snaking through the city streets. My guess is that they are waiting in line to buy tickets to the interviews tonight. They will either get to see me shine, or get my whole family in danger.


	15. Another Diamond

When I come back inside to get ready for my interview, Albina, Rufus, and Cloaca all wrinkle their noses in unison as they look at all the dust and soot adorning my body and clothing. It's so funny the way they think dirt is so bad! I was just starting to feel normal again after almost a week in sterile whiteness.

"Get her in an herbal bath," orders Albina.

"Good idea," agrees Rufus, who then hurries off to the bathroom and turns on the water.

This herbal bath turns out to be practically boiling water smelling of overripe lemons that not only vanishes all the grime from my skin, but also makes me turn bright red.

"Don't worry," assures Cloaca, "that'll wear off in a few minutes. Then we'll start iridecizing you." What does "iridecizing" mean? I wonder. It doesn't sound natural.

A few minutes later, I learn. After the prep team rubbed an entire tube of some sort of lotion all over my body, and baked me under a sun lamp for five minutes, my skin changes color again. I look at myself in the mirror from different angles, and my skin, which now is a pearly white from the lotion, shines pink—or blue—or green—or yellow—depending on how you look at it. I am iridescent.

"Now for your dress," says a voice. I turn around, and Lucius is standing in the doorway holding something white in his arms. He helps me into it, and I look at myself in the mirror. Cloaca squeals out of delight. I don't look anything like myself—more like a precious gem than a human. Now I have been turned completely into a diamond.

My dress is long, almost to the tips of my toes, and it flares out when I walk (and my shoes are fortunately the ones Decima insisted upon). Parts of the white silk, though, have been replaced with a fabric I can't define. It's clear, but doesn't feel like plastic. This curious fabric is sewn in geometric designs at random places on the dress giving the effect that I'm covered in giant diamonds.

The only part of me that's still normal is my hair, but the prep team is now very busy plaiting it into a complex hairdo. When they are done weaving strands of clear beads into the braided bun, it is already time to go downstairs for the interview. A stage has been set up in the city square, along with seating for the people who were rich—and early—enough to buy tickets. But I can see, from backstage, that others are standing around the edges of the square, and many people are crowding on the rooftops and balconies of nearby buildings. Huge spotlights are illuminating two chairs on the center of the stage, and a semicircle of smaller chairs rings the back curtain.

The clock strikes 8 o'clock, and it's time now for the interviews to begin. "Ladies and gentlemen," a voice booms, "welcome to the interviews of the first annual Hunger Games!" There is a huge cheer from the crowd. Then the spotlight follows a man walking onto stage from the opposite wings, who I assume had made the previous announcement. "My name is Rex Sparkson," he says into the microphone, "and I will interview all twenty-four of our tributes tonight!" Then, all the tributes, including me, file onto the stage in district order to sit in the seats at the back of the stage. As always, District 12 will go last, so I will have to watch all the others before me.

District 1 goes first, and the girl, who is wearing a short, sequined frock, talks about how she has always wanted to visit the Capitol after it was restored from the damage of the rebellion. I bet she's lying—but don't we all have to?

The districts go by. Litta, looking very nervous, talks about swimming. After a few seconds of awkward stage fright, I can tell she's very comfortable up there. Swimming is the one thing she can talk for ages about without getting tired. By the time her buzzer goes off at three minutes, she's grinning. The waiting tributes aren't allowed to show much emotion towards the others, but I can't help but clap for her, she's done such a great job.

Her district partner, on the other hand, wins the audience differently. I find out his name is Douglas, and I can tell he's really confident by the way he struts around the stage. He brags about his training score, and assures everyone that he's going to win the Hunger Games.

District 5…District 6…7…8…9…10…11. Then it's my turn. "Please welcome Freia Cowden, our female tribute from District 12!"

* * *

**Since this is going to be the last chapter I'll write for a bit, I thought I'd leave you guys with a cliffhanger! School is open again starting Monday, so I'm not going to have any time to write a lot. I'll probably update with about a chapter a week. Sorry about that-I liked having a week off of school, even if it was because of a natural disaster.**


	16. Interview Questions

**Just kidding! I forgot we have a day off of school for Election Day, so here's another chapter.**

* * *

The audience screams in admiration as I get up from my small chair and walk to the larger one in the center of the stage. I'm pretty sure that due to the different angles of all the lights that were set up around the stage, I look to them like a rainbow. It helps that it's nighttime now, and the sky is dark.

When the crowd quiets down, Rex Sparkson adjusts his clip-on microphone, and asks me, "That's not your real skin, is it?"

This is _not_ the type of question I had been anticipating, and I breathe a sigh of relief. "No, it's just a cream," I answer.

"Well, I'll bet you'll start a trend!" The audience cheers again, and I glance at the clock on the side of the stage. Fifteen seconds down, two minutes, forty-five seconds to go. I breathe deeply, calming myself, and wait for the next question.

And then my heart stops when I hear it. "Freia," says Rex, "Freia, what a beautiful name to go with such beautiful skin. What does it mean?" Suddenly, I'm lightheaded. The lights that are making my skin shine now blind my eyes and overheat me. But I force myself not to lose my composure.

I can't tell them the real meaning, obviously; it hints too much at the rebellion. So I tell Rex and the audience of Capitol citizens about my nickname. "Well, it's just a common District 12 name, and I'm normally called my nickname, 'little black bear'." This story also gives me a good transition into talking about my family. "My grandfather gave it to me when I was seven…."

I tell the whole story from staring the bear down, to being mistaken for it later. And the audience loves it—they've probably forgotten all about my real name by now. Maybe inspired by the introduction of my grandfather, Rex asks some more questions about him.

"Did he work in the mines?" and, "How old is he?" and, "He's on your father's side of the family, right?" and finally, "What's his name?"

I answer all of them, "Yes, he still does, too," and, "Sixty-eight," and, "Yes, my mother's parents died before I was born," and, "His name is Jorgen. Jorgen Cowden."

"Thank you," says Rex Sparkson, and then he changes the subject. "Now—that nine in training is extraordinary! Do you think it's a good implication of how well you'll do in the Games tomorrow?"

I catch Decima's eye from the wings. I know just how to answer this one. "I think it's a _very_ good implication," I start. "I may be from District 12, the farthest district from the Capitol, but that doesn't mean I'm weaker than any of the other tributes. Don't underestimate me—or my district partner—in terms of chance. The chances of me winning this thing are exactly the same as the chances of a District 1 tribute winning—twenty-four to one!"

The applause and whistles of the crowd almost drown out the buzzer as Rex thanks me for answering his questions, and I walk back to my small chair. Only when I'm sitting down again, do I realize how sweaty I am. I guess it's the nerves and the bright lights. I listen to Ellis stutter about how fun living in the Capitol was for the past week, and how he'll miss it when he's in the Hunger Games, and I know that he's blatantly lying. It must be his interview angle, though.

He returns to his seat next to mine white-faced and shaking. Then we, with all the other tributes, stand up and bow to the audience. We file off of the stage, and meet with our escort, stylists, and prep team.

"You two did a great job!" bubbles Decima, "I think you'll get lots of sponsors when it comes time." She looks especially happy; probably because I added that little speech about District 12 at the end of my interview.

"Let's all go back upstairs now," says Albina. "Freia needs a hot bath to wash off her skin."

A few minutes later, I'm seated in the bathtub—which looks more like a small swimming pool because it's so big—soaking in hot water and soap bubbles. This is my last night in the Capitol; tomorrow, at 10 o'clock in the morning, I will be in the arena ready to start the Hunger Games. But I still have no idea what to expect. Sure, we will all have to kill each other, but I just can't imagine what it will be like. There is no way someone like Ellis or someone like Litta could even hurt another person. Come to think of it, neither could I. The largest animal I've killed by myself is probably a fat rabbit. I try to think that it will be the same killing a person—a quick slash of a knife to the throat—but I just don't think it will.


	17. The Games Begin

The day of the Hunger Games dawns bright and hot. Warm sunlight seeps through the cracks of the blinds pulled down on the window and onto my face as I wake up. I get out of bed and pull the blinds up revealing a cloudless blue sky. The perfect morning. Decima knocks on my door saying, "I let you sleep and extra ten minutes, but now we have to get going! Oh, and don't bother changing out of your night clothes—you will dress in your arena outfit once you get to the Launch Room."

After a small breakfast of buttered, flaky rolls, I am herded onto a hovercraft of some sort. At the door, Decima and the prep team say goodbye. Lucius will be waiting for me at the Launch Room.

"You will be absolutely great!" squeals Cloaca.

"I'm rooting for you," assures Rufus.

"I wish you good luck," Albina tells me.

"Make District 12 proud!" says Decima.

Then the door slides shut, and I'm filled with that same feeling of dread that I had when Sam and my grandparents left after I was reaped. I have the feeling I will never see any of them again.

Suddenly, I feel something touching my arm, and I reflexively jerk it back. I spin around and see a woman in a white lab coat holding a syringe. I hadn't even noticed her before.

"Relax," she says. "This is just your tracker."

Tracker? I think, as she injects whatever was in the syringe into my forearm. That doesn't sound good. If I do happen to win, and I go home to District 12, will I still have this "tracker" inside of me? The Capitol would be able to see my every move.

The hovercraft has risen, and it's gaining speed. I sit in one of the comfortable seats, and stare out the window for a while. Since there are no clouds, I can see the layout of the land unfolding beneath me. The Capitol streets are organized in a wheel-like form. The streets spread out from the center of the city, where the chariot parade and the interviews were held. Every couple hundred meters, a circular avenue connects all the spokes. A large building is situated slightly north of the city square; I assume it's the president's mansion.

The hovercraft is traveling farther and farther away from the Capitol, until I can only see the tallest building in the distance. Then the windows black out. "Please stay seated," an automated voice with a Capitol accent says, "we will be descending momentarily."

Five minutes later, I hear the whirring of the hovercraft stop, and the door opens to a narrow hallway. I walk out of the hovercraft onto the carpeted floors, and make my way to the door at the opposite end, which must be the Launch Room. Lucius is sitting on a couch waiting for me, and when I come in, he stands up to greet me.

"Good, good," he says, "you're here. Let's get you dressed in your outfit for the arena." He gestures to a pile of clothes on the short table in front of the couch. "I must say, they did quite a good job making them, even though they banned me from the designing committee." I stifle a snort at this remark. Of course they would have banned Lucius, with is incompetence in fashion.

I quickly dress in the clothes laid out for me. Long underwear, thick white pants, and a black turtleneck sweater. A gray parka covers my upper body, complete with a hood and retractable mittens. Brown, leather boots cover the bottoms of my pants and lace up to nearly my knees. They are comfortable and have good, rubber soles; they will be very good for running and climbing.

Within two minutes, I am sweating heavily from the heat. Obviously, where I'm going is cold. I just sit on the couch, without talking to Lucius, until an automated voice tells me, "Five minutes until launch." Four minutes later, "One minute to launch."

"You should stand on the launch pad now," Lucius tells me. I go walk over to where he's pointing, and stand on the circular metal disk.

"Thirty seconds to launch." I take deep breaths. Why am I so nervous?

"Ten seconds to launch. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, zero." A glass wall encircles the disk I'm standing on, and I start to rise. I'm traveling up from underground—I can tell it's pretty far, because my ears pop as the pressure lessens. All I can see around me is gray cement as I whiz higher and higher.

Then the gray disappears, and it is replaced by a blinding, white light. The glass retracts, and a sharp blast of freezing air hits my face.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the First Annual Hunger Games begin!"

* * *

**Review please! The next chapter will be very exciting-the Hunger Games will really begin!  
**


	18. Blood on the Snow

I feel the harsh, cold wind on my neck, whipping my messy hair around, and I instinctively pull up my hood. I'm still standing on my metal disk, but the scenery around me has changed considerably. All twenty-four tributes are standing in a big circle around a woven, metal cornucopia, in the middle of a plain of hard-packed earth, dead grass, and frost. There is about ten meters between each tribute, which means that the cornucopia is less than 70 meters away—a very short distance.

Farther away, maybe 400 meters or so, in every direction, is a forest. From what I can see, the trees, which are lightly dusted with snow, are a mixture of pines and deciduous trees. That's good—these unfamiliar woods are actually very close to the woods outside of District 12.

Piled in the mouth of the cornucopia are packages and crates and other things. I can't really tell what everything is from so far away, but there are also things that are closer to me. A pocketknife lies less than a meter in front of me, and there is a bag of oranges a little farther away and to my left.

The sky is overcast with low, white clouds that only mean snow. This is very different from the clear, blue sky I left in the Capitol. There is also a large number in the sky—counting down. The number must be projected somehow, or maybe a hovercraft with a television screen is floating there. I recall Decima telling me that I'd have one minute to gather my mind before a gong goes off signaling the official start of the Games. And if I stepped off my plate, I'd get blown to bits by land mines, which were only deactivated at the gong. The projection in the sky indicates that I have twenty-five seconds left.

I scan the ring of tributes, but I can't find Litta or Ellis. I do, however, see Douglas, Litta's district partner from 4, standing three tributes to the left of me. The girl from District 1 is on my direct right, and the boy from District 9 is standing to my direct left. Fifteen seconds to go.

But what am I supposed to do when the clock hits zero? I want to see what the cornucopia holds, and this set up makes it look like we're all supposed to do just that. But it must be some sort of trick—the Capitol would never make something as simple as that. There is definitely danger lurking here. We have ten seconds to go.

I spot a large backpack fairly close to the cornucopia. It seems like it contains some sort of foldable tent in it. It looks very useful, and if I got it, I could probably survive for days in the forest. Five seconds left. Four. Three. Two. One. Zero.

A loud gong goes off, and I step off of my plate. I see that the other tributes are just as bewildered as me. I pick up the pocketknife next to me and slide it into my coat pocket. It could come in handy.

"Oh, cool!" I hear a shout from across the field. The twelve or thirteen year old boy from District 2 has picked up a bow and a quiver of arrows from the center of the cornucopia. Suddenly, it's as if everyone has the same idea. All the tributes madly rush to the cornucopia and start wildly grabbing everything in reach.

I'm caught up in this wave, and I seize a length of rope and a canteen. I try to make it to the tent pack that I had seen earlier, but the boy from District 7 snatches it out from under my nose.

"Bad luck, 'Diamonds'!" he jeers at me, but I just ignore his nasty remark.

I still haven't seen Litta, so I weave through the other tributes to try and seek her out. Then I hear shrieks of agony. A big, burly girl, who I think is from District 5, is holding the weaker District 6 girl in a headlock.

"Give me the knives!" the District 5 girl is yelling.

"No," gasps the girl from 6, "I got them first!" She struggles against her opponent, kicking her in the knees.

"Give them to me!" shouts the girl from 5, again, and she tries to wrench one of the knives from the other girl's hands. The knives are dangerously close to her throat.

Suddenly, I hear a scream. A long, shrieking scream of pure agony. And it's not coming from the small District 6 girl, whom I see, limp in a pool of blood on the ground. It comes from the mouth of the girl from District 5—obviously horrified that she's now a killer.

* * *

**I'm going to start a list of the dead, and add to it after each chapter, just so things aren't too confusing regarding who's alive or not.**

**1. District 6 female-killed by District 5 female  
**


	19. Bloodbath

**I am extremely grateful and pleased that so many people like my story! BUT-I cannot possibly write seven chapters per day. I do have to go to school. Today was an anomaly-we have a day off because of the election-but from now on I probably can only upload one or two chapters every week.  
**

* * *

I turn on my heels, adrenalin rushing through my veins, and sprint out of the cornucopia area as fast as I can. The heels of my boots kick up the frosty ground as I go, and the canteen I picked up earlier bangs against my thigh. I must get out of here—the girl from District 5 may target me next. But I can feel myself slowing down as I near the forest. This weather, along with all the bulky clothes I'm wearing, hampers my speed. Also, curiosity gets the better of me, and I turn around to see what's happening back at the cornucopia.

The District 5 girl is still standing over the body of the girl she's just killed, making a high-pitched sound. Not a scream anymore, but more of a whine. Someone, who I think is her district partner tries to touch her arm to guide her away—and then she lashes out at him. One quick swipe to the neck, and he's in the same position as the girl from 6.

But something inside the girl from 5 has definitely snapped, because she then gets down on her knees and starts stabbing the boy who had touched her arm. Every time she plunges the knife into his abdomen, his body contorts around it, and more blood spews up from his body. I don't want to watch—this is all too horrible—but I can't help it.

Some other tributes in the vicinity try to pull her away, but the District 5 girl has gone completely insane, and she waves her knife at them as well. While all this chaos is going on, I notice that a couple tributes have gotten the same idea. Most of the tributes are occupied with taming the girl from District 5, but some are going around collecting even more supplies from the cornucopia.

The boy who was standing next to me on the launch plates—District 9—is picking up the tent pack, which was left on the ground by the District 7 boy, who is off fighting the girl from 5. The tent pack was left in a small pile of other supplies, which the District 7 boy was obviously going to come back for later, but the by from 9 doesn't seem to realize this. He takes the pack, and starts dragging it away. It's too heavy for him to carry; he can't even lift it off the ground.

The District 7 boy must have heard the noise of it dragging, and he turns around and sees his supplies being taken.

"Hey!" he shouts. "Put that down!" The District 9 boy looks back and, seeing the large boy charging after him, tries to run still holding the tent pack. But before he can get anywhere, he trips and falls face first into the hard ground. His hands immediately fly to his nose, which I think may be broken.

The District 7 boy takes his pack, and I expect him to walk away with it—after all, the boy from 9 isn't going to try to take it again. But suddenly, he swings the tent pack at the boy's head, and I hear the sharp sound of metal on bone. The boy from District 9 collapses.

I can't watch this anymore—it's too much. I spin around and run into the forest. I keep jogging through the trees, and very soon, all I can see are branches and leaves, and all I can hear are the sounds of birds and my own breath and footsteps. I guess I'm going to have to live in the woods until everyone else kills each other or dies somehow. I don't want to have any contact with the other tributes if it just ends in us dying. I can do that, though; I know how to survive.

I'm not sure how far I've run so far, or where I am. All the parts of the forest look exactly the same to me. A mixture of tall trees covered in a light layer of snow. The ground is frosted over, and it crunches under my boots as I run. Snowdrifts have piled up at the bases of trees. It's so cold out here, especially with the wind blowing in my face. My eyes are watering, my nose is running, and I have to stop now to wipe all the liquid up. Then I start running again, determined to get as far away from the cornucopia as I can.

* * *

**1. District 6 female-killed by District 5 female  
**

**2. District 5 male-killed by District 5 female  
**

**3. District 9 male-killed by District 7 male  
**


	20. Stream, Rabbits, and Pines

**Wow. Another chapter. I was able to write this while half-watching the election, which is pretty boring at this point (but I know it will be VERY exciting later tonight). But this is seriously the last chapter for a while!  
**

* * *

"Oh!" I yelp, as I trip over something and fall on my face. As I raise my head from the carpet of frosted, dead leaves, I see that I have fallen down a slope leading to a riverbed. This is the first source of water, other than the snow, that I have seen so far in the arena.

The stream at the bottom of the slope is rushing very fast, though. It is only about two feet wide, and maybe a foot deep, which means the spring where it starts is fairly close at hand. But that won't do me any good in terms of food. If I want to catch fish, I need a slow, wide stream—very different from this one. Perhaps if I follow this one downhill, it will widen out eventually.

I assume that I'm far enough away from any other tributes by now, so I slow down to a walk instead of run. I follow the stream for what seems like ages, but the water is still white from rapids, and just as fast as it was when I stumbled across it. This is not going to do, but at least following the stream takes me away from the cornucopia.

Suddenly, I hear a boom, and I whip around expecting to see a tribute come to kill me. But then I vaguely remember Decima telling me that cannons were shot off every time a tribute died. There are nine booms in all before silence. I guess there were a lot more deaths that happened after I left the cornucopia area.

Then I notice small tracks in the snow leading towards and then away from the stream. The large back paws and small front ones indicate rabbit. I hear a rustle coming from a nearby bush, and then I see a small, dark thing dash from under it towards the more concealed forest.

"Good to see you," I whisper, and remember that I can make traps to catch food. It's definitely way past lunchtime now, and I can feel the effects of half a day's hunger. It started as a gnawing in my stomach about two hours ago, and the vigorous running didn't help a bit. For a while after that, I couldn't feel anything, but now sharp pains run their way through my abdomen every couple seconds.

After digging through a snowdrift, I find a sizeable rock to make a figure four snare with. The rope I had picked up by the cornucopia is much too thick to tie the trap together, but I unravel a bit into smaller strands. I find a couple good sticks, and construct the snare.

I had to take my mittens off to tie the wood together, and now my fingers are so cold that they are red, and turning white. In fact, I am freezing all over. Despite the parka, and the thick, cotton shirt underneath, the cold wind seems to pierce through everything and wrap itself around my body chilling me to the bone. It gets really cold in District 12 in the winter, but never like this. I have the intense urge to build a fire and warm myself up, but that is unthinkable. I have learned, after a couple close calls with peacekeepers in the woods at home, that firelight and smoke can be seen from very long distances away. The risk outweighs the warmth right now.

The daylight is already fading—the bleak, gray sky is turning a darker gray, and the freezing temperature is dropping even more than I ever thought possible. I realize that I need to make a shelter for the fast-approaching night. I take out my pocketknife from my pocket, and find some low pine branches. I saw away at them, and find some on the ground, until I have about twenty branches with the needles still on. Hopefully they will provide enough insulation that I won't die of cold.

Ten minutes later the sunlight is almost completely gone, but I have a makeshift shelter. I have leaned the pine branches up against a tree to create a space about one and a half square meters wide—enough room for me to curl up and sleep cramped, but pretty comfortable. I moved some small boulders around it, and sprinkled snow over the branches to make it look a little bit more natural, but I'm really hoping no other tributes come near here tonight. I don't think they will, though. If I'm so focused on survival and not killing, then they will be, too. But I still shouldn't risk a fire.

I crawl into my lean-to, and huddle against the tree trunk for warmth. Through the pine needles on the branches, I can see something in the sky, and I hear the Capitol anthem. I think it's a picture of a tribute—the same headshot they showed to announce training scores. I see the faces of the District one girl, District 2 boy, District 5 girl, District 5 male—and then I realize it's a list of the dead, because I had seen him die. I guess someone killed the girl from 5 in the end. Next come the District 6 girl, District 6 boy, District 8 boy, District 11 girl, and District 11 boy. Then the sky goes dark, and the sounds of the forest come back. I guess Litta and Ellis have both survived the first day.

Lulled by the soothing sounds of the forest, which make me feel so at home, I drift off to sleep on the carpet of dead leaves. The last thing I think is how this is so different from my Capitol bedroom.

* * *

**1. District 6 female-killed by District 5 female  
**

**2. District 5 male-killed by District 5 female  
**

**3. District 9 male-killed by District 7 male**

**4. District 1 female-unknown**

**5. District 2 male-unknown  
**

**6. District 5 female-unknown  
**

**7. District 6 male-unknown  
**

**8. District 8 male-unknown  
**

**9. District 11 female-unknown  
**

**10. District 11 male-unknown  
**


	21. Snowed In

**I got the inspiration for this chapter from a freak snow-storm that hit my city yesterday! It's so weird having a blizzard just a week after having a hurricane... **

* * *

_I'm walking down a street in District 12. I know this street very well—all the cracks in the concrete sidewalk, all the weeds that grow along the edges in the summer—it's the street I walk down to get to school. Now it must be winter, for there are snowdrifts shoveled to the side of the sidewalk, and the street is slick with ice. A peacekeeper's van drives slowly past me, and then turns a corner at the cross street._

_Then I hear a screech, a scream, and a crash. I start running towards the noise. My vision is blurry, but I can make out people trying to hold me back, push me away from the overturned van. But I fight through them, and come face to face with my parents. Dead on the ice covered street._

_My legs give way, and I fall back into the arms of the people who tried to warn me and black out._

I wake up, shaking. It was just a dream—I'm not in District 12, I'm in the arena, and my parents died when I was ten. But it's weird; I haven't had that nightmare for years. It's true, I was on my way to school when they died, I saw the van that hit them, and I saw their dead bodies. Every night afterwards, I would have the same dream, and I would never be able to save my parents, no matter how much I urged my dream self to run ahead of the peacekeeper's van. But over time, I had that dream less and less, until I thought I had grown out of it. I guess I haven't yet.

Then I realize just how warm I am. When I went to sleep in my makeshift hut, I was chilled to the bone, but now I'm practically toasty. I sit up and, not realizing just how low my ceiling of pine branches is, hit my head on the wood, which sends a shower of snowflakes to the ground. Then I realize that I'm snowed in. It must have snowed at lease three feet—maybe more—last night, and the snow has completely covered my dwelling. I guess the solid layer of flakes kept the heat from escaping.

I wonder where Litta is now. Did she survive the first night? Is she snowed in somewhere, too? Maybe I should seek her out in the arena.

I could stay in the warmth of my lean-to forever—I don't want to go back out in the freezing cold. But my stomach is literally rubbing together, and my throat and lips are parched dry. Since I'm so warm, I risk eating snow for water. Normally, eating snow is a bad thing to do because it lowers your body temperature significantly, but the snow isn't much colder than the stream I discovered yesterday, plus I'm feeling very warm right now. The snow seems clean, and I also stuff a lot into my canteen and put it in my parka pocket to melt.

Food, on the other hand, is a big issue. The snow most likely covered my figure four snare completely, and unless an animal got caught in it before the storm, it won't be of any use. I could follow the stream some more in search of a good fishing place, but that would be very unreliable. I'm in a terrible situation. No food, no snare, and buried under three feet of snow. How long can I last without food, anyway? Given the conditions in District 12, I'm used to eating one meal a day, but usually Sam and I bring home enough food from the woods to have two. But currently, I have absolutely no food options. Maybe I could last a week without food, but my weight would decrease, and I would be an easy kill even if I am found by the weakest tribute. I guess this is why they call these the "Hunger Games."

I finally decide to at least crawl out of my pine branch shack. There's no point in just sitting here doing nothing—I won't get anywhere that way. I move one branch to the side and start pawing through the wall of snow. Unfortunately, I have to dump all of the snow backwards into my shelter, but I'll clean that up later, if I even come back here tonight.

A lot more snow than I had though at first had fallen last night—maybe 130 centimeters. When I finally dig my way out of my hole, I'm surrounded up to my chest with snow. But at least its not falling anymore, though the sky is still overcast. I have to literally swim through it to get anywhere, and I can already feel my strength fading with my hunger. I find my stream easily, though. It's moving too fast for ice to form or snow to stick, and the sound if it rushing is just as loud as before.

There don't seem to be any water plants growing around the edge, but after all, it's winter here in the arena. I know it's far-fetched, but maybe I can find some plant bulbs or tubers lying dormant in the mud. I force myself to take off my mittens, and plunge my hands into the freezing mud. The deeper I dig, the warmer the earth gets. Then my finger touches something slimy—which moves! I grab whatever it is tightly and pull my arm out. Clenched in my hand is a slippery, green frog!


	22. An Old Song

Of course! I should have remembered that frogs burrow underground when the cold sets in. And if I've already found one frog here, there's got to be more nearby. The frog in my hand kicks its legs weakly in protest, but it's already freezing. My first meal! But how do I cook it? A fire will attract other tributes, but I can't eat a frog raw, because who knows what dangerous bacteria might be inside it. I look around at the ocean of snow, and then the answer comes to me: I will dig out a cave in a snow bank, start a small fire, and quickly roast the frog before the snow melts and the smoke escapes.

I put the frog in my pocket but don't even bother to zip it up—the frog is too far gone to go anywhere—and start hollowing out an indentation in the snow. Once I have dug a nice sized hole, maybe 30 centimeters in each direction, I gather some twigs and lots of dead pine needles from a fallen tree branch. I start a fire, but don't add any larger sticks because I need to keep it very small, and then I stick the dead frog on another stick and hold it over the flames.

Soon, I realize there's a problem. The fire is starting to get so hot that it's melting the roof of snow that's keeping the smoke contained. Water droplets are falling into the little cave and threatening to put out the flames. I hold the frog closer to the fire and hope that it will cook fast enough before my plan fails.

I pull the frog out when there is less than ten centimeters of snow-roof left. Fortunately, it looks well enough done. The walls of the snow hole, however, as well as my hands and face, are stained a dark gray from the soot that rose up from the fire, but luckily none got out into the open air. I pull a leg off of the cooked frog and pull the meat off with my teeth. Food—even frog—tastes so good after over a day of nothing! I eat the entire thing in less than five minutes, not thinking that I might have needed to save some for later. But I dig some more, and catch five additional frogs, which I cook using the same method and stow in my parka pocket.

Well fed and rested, I start walking in the riverbed following the path of the stream. There's no way I'm going to fight my way through the walls of snow back to my lean-to—I'll just make camp somewhere else tonight. After walking for maybe an hour, I start to relax. I'd been so uptight about being attacked by other tributes yesterday that I hadn't had any time to settle down. Now, however, I'm feeling positively happy—I'd survived the first night of the Hunger Games, and I had just caught enough food to last me two or three days. I start to hum a bit. I hum an old tune from District 12. Soon, though, I'm singing. Grandfather taught me this song when I was little, and it goes like this:

_When all's quiet hear the sounds,_

_And when it's dark out see the sight_

_Of the place you long for most:_

_Your home where you will be tonight._

_I'll keep the fire burning bright_

_And put your dinner on your plate;_

_I'll wait for you to come on home;_

_You'll be safe once you close the gate._

It's a funny song. I guess it's about one person who has been away from home for a while, but is expected to be back soon. Then there is another person who is waiting for the traveler to come back—maybe a mother, or a husband, or someone. And then there's this hint of danger, made clear by the last line, "You'll be safe once you close the gate." It makes me wonder what could possibly be out there that is threatening the traveler. But the song doesn't explain that—in fact it doesn't even say if the traveler even makes it home in the end. Maybe he or she never does.

Suddenly, I stop singing. There are voices coming from behind me—two male voices and one female talking very fast and excited.

"I knew it!" the girl says. "There's someone here; I told you I heard singing."

I take off running, but my boots splash in the water, just making my presence more obvious to my pursuers. Silently, I curse myself for getting too confident and singing. I should really have been more careful.

"Get her!" I hear a male voice call out from behind me. Then there's more splashing, and I know that all three are running after me now. It's going to be hard to escape them—the canyon of snow only offers one path to follow, and the weather makes breathing difficult. The cold air pierces my throat and makes my eyes water until I can barely see ahead of me. But I keep running even though my legs and lungs are burning; I can't let those other tributes catch up to me.

And then I trip. My foot catches on a tree root or something, and I fall flat on my face and feel a searing pain shoot up my ankle. I think I sprained it or something. It takes a moment to catch my breath, and then I roll over onto my back—and am face to face with the boy from District 7, Douglas, Litta's district partner from 4, and a girl, who I believe is from District 3. The boy from 7 bends down and grabs my jacket collar, pulling me slightly off the ground.

"Ah," he says mockingly, "hello again, 'Diamonds.'"


	23. The Murderer

My gray eyes stare into the dark brown eyes of the District 7 boy. I know it's futile to fight back—they've already captured me, and my ankle is useless. The least they can do is make my death a relatively painless one. Maybe a bullet to the base of my head, but I don't think I saw any guns at the cornucopia. Chopping off my head would be another option. Then the District 7 boy unexpectedly lets go of my collar, and I flop backwards, my head hitting the ground hard.

"You there," he says, "District 3. I'm giving you one chance to prove yourself—kill her." I'm positive "her" means me, and the District 3 girl is going to kill me now. But as my eyes move over to her, I can see that her face pales.

"Me?" she asks, with a worried note in her voice.

"Yes you," replies the District 7 boy. "You're the one who got an 8 in training and said they were good with razor wire."

The girl gulps, but nods slowly, and moves towards my body lying on the ground. She kneels beside me, reaches into her pocket, and pulls out a coil of something I assume to be razor wire. The girl from District 3 handles it with her mittens on—it looks very sharp. The girl loops it around my neck, and I feel all hope of surviving these Games vanish into thin air. I can't believe only five minutes ago I felt confident enough to sing. Now I'm just like the traveler in my song—but it's not even a possibility that I'm going to go home.

I look up at the face of the girl from 3. Her violet eyes are scared, and her skin is a pale, greenish, color now. It looks like she's going to be sick. It's hard to feel bad for someone who you know is going to kill you in just one moment, but I can't help but think that she actually doesn't want to murder me. She's only doing this because her ally, the boy from 7, told her to prove herself, which she's only doing because she feels safer in an alliance.

As the District 3 girl tightens the wire even more, I feel something with my hand. The cold, slick feel of ice—more specifically, and icicle, and a burst of hope rushes through me. Without moving my eyes—because I know that the others will look where I look—I quietly break it off of the protruding tree root that it had formed on. Just when the wire starts to cut into my neck, I swing my arm forwards and plunge the icicle into the girl's chest.

And I've killed someone. It was out of self-defense, but I've actually killed a person. The icicle is long enough that it sticks straight through her body, and protrudes through her back. The girl stares at me in shock, coughs up some blood, and then her eyes roll back in her head, and she falls backwards to the ground.

The boy from District 7 and Douglas are stunned, and I take this as an opportunity to escape my own death. I flip over, and, ignoring the throbbing of my ankle, sprint down the length of the stream. I don't look back, knowing that it will slow me down, and that I don't think I'll be able to see the bloody body of the girl I killed without going completely insane like the girl from District 5 did when she killed someone.

The others don't seem to be following me, but I keep running away from them until my ankle completely gives out, and I fall into the stream. But I keep rolling downhill, because the riverbed gives way to a sharp decline. The stream turns into a small waterfall, and the snow here is considerably less than where I just was, so I roll out of the water so it doesn't freeze over my face making it impossible to breathe.

I continue rolling down the hill until the decline levels out somewhat, and the snow slows my speed. I lie spread-eagled on the ground, gazing up through the bare branches of the trees into the gray sky. I hear the boom of a cannon that means the girl from District 3 has died. That I killed her. I am now an evil murderer capable of killing a person without flinching.

And now it's the District 3 girl who will never get to go home. I bet her family had been waiting for her homecoming just like the singer of my song is waiting for the traveler to arrive. But the girl will never make it home because she's dead. I can't believe that I had been so selfish to believe that I was going to die—when it turned out to be her instead.

I saw the look of surprise on her face when I plunged the icicle into her parka. She had not been anticipating her death any time soon, because she had gotten safely into an alliance. But she was wrong—I ruined it for her.

Then I hear a wavering voice. "Freia?" it asks. That's one voice I know all too well. I sit up, wincing as pain shoots up from my ankle, and turn around to see Litta.

* * *

**1. District 6 female-killed by District 5 female  
**

**2. District 5 male-killed by District 5 female  
**

**3. District 9 male-killed by District 7 male**

**4. District 1 female-unknown**

**5. District 2 male-unknown  
**

**6. District 5 female-unknown  
**

**7. District 6 male-unknown  
**

**8. District 8 male-unknown  
**

**9. District 11 female-unknown  
**

**10. District 11 male-unknown**

**11. District 3 female-killed by Freia**


	24. Hidden Cave

**Sprained ankles are the worst! I made Freia sprain her ankle because I know just how painful they are-I sprained both my ankles while running within two weeks of each other.  
**

* * *

"I saw you come rolling down the waterfall," says Litta as she helps me up. "You looked like you were being chased." Then she pauses, and asks hesitantly, "Were you?"

I nod, and say, "We should get out of here. They might come looking for me, and it's not like I tried to cover my tracks or anything." I gesture to the wide trough in the snow—which is only about 20 centimeters high here—where I had rolled down the hill.

"They're not following you," Litta says decisively.

I stare at her. "What? Of course they are; why wouldn't they be?"

Litta shrugs. "I don't know why; all I know is that they're not anywhere near here. I just have a good feeling." I decide to accept her answer—after all, it would be nice to not be chased by some bloodthirsty tributes for a time. I have to lean heavily of Litta's shoulder as we start to walk up the hill.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"I found a cave last night where it's warm and fairly dry. We'll rest there and look at your ankle then." I don't see any place where a cave could be, though. Apart from the small cliff that the waterfall plunges down, the hill is completely blanketed in snow. We near the top of the hill, and still I don't see anything.

"So where is it?" I ask Litta. I have to almost shout over the roar of the waterfall.

"Here!" yells Litta, and she pushes me into the waterfall. The freezing water hits my face with full force, and for a moment I almost believe that this was a plot to kill me, and that Litta is an enemy as well as a murderer. But when I come up spluttering on the opposite side of the waterfall, the thought vanishes from my mind. Of course Litta wouldn't kill me; she's my friend! Her cave is on the underside of the waterfall—invisible and inaudible from the other side.

Just a moment later, Litta comes through the water as well, holding a large chunk of ice. "Your ankle's probably swollen," she tells me, "but fortunately we have all the ice we need!" I gingerly unlace my right boot, and pull it off. Litta's right; my ankle is swollen to twice its normal size, and a bruise covers it from the top of my foot to my lower leg. I lay the ice on my ankle, and at first the pressure sends darts of pain shooting through my foot and leg, but after a few seconds, the cold sets in and alleviates the pain.

We roast two of my frogs for dinner—Litta was positive that a fire wouldn't attract any attention to our hiding place—and I ask Litta how she had fared for the past day and a half. Apparently, she had taken off from the cornucopia immediately, and headed for the forest. About thirty or so minutes ahead of me, she had taken the same path along the stream, and eventually found this cave. She hadn't stayed at the cornucopia ling enough to pick up any supplies, and she hadn't had anything to eat.

Then I tell her my story of singing too loudly and being found by Douglas, the District 7 boy, and the girl from District 3. I explain how I hurt my ankle by tripping over a root, and how I was almost killed by razor wire. Finally I admit to Litta that I'm now a murderer because I had stabbed the girl from 3 with an icicle.

"Can I hear the song?" asks Litta. "I really like music—at home in District 4 we used to sing a lot, too."

I start to sing. The melody of my song is low and haunting, even if the words are kind of hopeful. When I finish, Litta claps, and says, "Now I'll sing you one of my favorite songs." And she begins:

_Where ever you may go,_

_Eventually you'll find the sea._

_You were born from brine and foam,_

_And this place, which you call home,_

_Will never leave you, no, _

_Eventually you'll find the sea._

The tune is so beautiful, and so different from any song I've ever heard. The clear notes are arranged in a pattern that mimics the rhythm of pounding of waves on a beach. Not that we have any beaches in District 12, but during the revolution, I visited District 4 on a trip with my father to unite the rebels. I still remember tasting the ocean water and discovering how salty it was! I don't think I could ever live my whole life in salt water, but the sea seems to mean an awful lot to Litta.

We're silent for a while after that, and I sense that Litta is thinking about her home, and probably her twin sister, Maria. I decide to lighten the mood by singing a joke song called "The Goat's Bride," which is about a goat who steals a man's hat in order to eat it, but can't get it off of his head. Then the man's fiancée mistakes the goat for her future husband, and marries it. It really is a silly song, and soon Litta and I are both collapsed in laughter at how stupid the wife is.

It's getting dark out, and the Capitol anthem starts playing. I can't see the faces of the dead tributes through the cascade of water at the opening of the cave, but I know who died anyway, because I murdered her. Litta and I arrange our hoods to serve as pillows, and we lie down at the warmest end of the cave to go to sleep.

This night, I have the same nightmare. And I still can't save my parents.


	25. Unanimous Vote

**Sorry for the long delay! I had a lot of school work this week.  
**

* * *

I wake up covered in sweat, even though the temperature is just as cold as yesterday and the day before. I see Litta's concerned face leaning over me. "You were really thrashing about," she says. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I answer. "It was just a dream." If I lived through my parents' actual death, I could live through a couple of nightmares—I'd done it before. I'd kept the ice on my ankle all night, and it's so cold here in the arena that it's still frozen! I take it off now, and examine my leg. The swelling of my ankle has gone down considerably, but there's still a dark bruise, which will take at least a week to disappear. And when I gingerly try to walk, I can barely feel any pain! Even the simplest remedy can have the best results.

I'm still going to stay off of it today, though, and keep icing it. We have enough frog left to last at least one more day, and then I figure I will be mended enough to set some snares and teach Litta to do the same. We spend the morning trying to stay warm and teaching each other even more songs. It seems as though Litta and I have found something we both truly enjoy. I mean, I already have exploring the woods, and Litta already has swimming, but music is the first thing that we've found that we can do together.

Suddenly, around mid-afternoon, Litta abruptly quiets me. "Shh!" she hisses. "Don't make another sound! There's someone outside." We quickly stamp out the fire and crawl to the farthest part of the cave, which is maybe ten meters or so from the waterfall entrance. I reach for my pocketknife and hold it ready in my hand.

It's hard to hear through the roaring of the waterfall, but there are definitely scuffles outside. We are taking a lot of precautions—no one is likely to find our hidden cave because it's not in a place one would normally look—but this is the Hunger Games, and precaution is the difference between life and death. The scuffling from outside now escalates into the thumping of boots, and I can also hear yells.

"Quiet!" a deep voice yells harshly. "Quiet! We can't continue with all your yelling." It sounds like he's talking to a large group of people. "Now," deep voice continues, "we all decided we needed a leader, so we're going to have to take a vote."

"But there are an even amount of us," pipes up a girl's voice. "What if there's a tie?"

Deep voice laughs. "Well, let's hope there's not." I don't really like the sharp edge to everything he says. I can't tell which tribute he is just from his voice, but I can tell that he's not a pleasant person. "First, we need some candidates. Who wants to be leader?" There is silence except for the rushing water. "Nobody? Well, then I guess I'll have to take the position. I'll appoint Lulu from District 10 my second in command. Any objections? Okay, now let's start—"

"Wait," says a voice. That's weird; I think I recognize this voice. "Wait! I do have an objection." Then I make out who's talking; it's Ellis! I had completely forgotten about him since the first night in the arena. I'm glad to hear that he's safe.

"Yes?" deep voice asks.

"You can't just become leader. We have to have a vote first." Something tells me that it's not wise for Ellis to be objecting to this new leader.

I hear deep voice chuckle. "You see," he explains, like he's talking to a little kid, "I was the only candidate. And since I was the only one, you only could have voted for me. Therefore, I won unanimously, and we did have a vote."

"Yeah," says Ellis, "but what if we don't want you as leader." Be careful, Ellis, I want to shout out to him, but that would give my hiding place away, and they'd all probably kill me.

"What did you say?" asks deep voice slowly.

"I said: 'But what if we don't want you as leader,'" says Ellis again, quieter.

"Let me explain this again," says deep voice. "I." He pauses. "Was." Another pause. "The. Only. Candidate."

"I'd rather have no leader than you."

There is silence for a moment, and then deep voice begins to speak again. "We can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way. You can stay safe with us in the alliance with me as leader, or you can go out into the arena by yourself and probably be killed by another tribute. Take your pick."

"I'll leave," says Ellis. I hear his footsteps crunching the snow—he's walking away.

After about half a minute of silence (I assume everyone is stunned at his decision), I hear deep voice whisper, "Lulu—hand me your spear." I hear the grunt of someone throwing something far, the thud of the impact of a body hitting the ground, a few small gasps, and the boom of the cannon that signals a death. They've killed Ellis.

* * *

**The name Lulu, for the District 10 girl, comes from a breed of cattle called "Dwarf Lulu." Dwarf Lulu cattle are a mix of taurine cattle, zebu, and yak.  
**

**1. District 6 female-killed by District 5 female  
**

**2. District 5 male-killed by District 5 female  
**

**3. District 9 male-killed by District 7 male**

**4. District 1 female-unknown**

**5. District 2 male-unknown  
**

**6. District 5 female-unknown  
**

**7. District 6 male-unknown  
**

**8. District 8 male-unknown  
**

**9. District 11 female-unknown  
**

**10. District 11 male-unknown**

**11. District 3 female-killed by Freia**

**12. Ellis-killed by deep voice  
**


	26. Icicles

Litta struggles to keep a grip on me as I fight to try to go outside and kill deep voice and Lulu right here and now. How could they do that? They didn't even give Ellis a fair warning—they just murdered him! I want to scream, but Litta's hand is covering my mouth tightly so I can't utter more than a high-pitched whine. I don't even know why I feel so strongly about this—Ellis and I were never friends, the most he ever said to me was, "Good luck," before my training session—and yet, I'm hungering for the blood of his killers. I guess he was the last thing connected to District 12 that remained here in the arena for me.

After about thirty minutes, the large alliance moves away, and when she's sure they're gone, Litta releases me. She allows me to sit hunched over in the corner of the cave for as long as I like without disturbing me. I stay curled up there for the rest of the day. I don't eat dinner, although Litta saves half of the last frog for me, and I definitely don't watch the recap of deaths tonight.

Eventually, I fall asleep to the soothing sound of the waterfall. And I have my nightmare again. It starts out the same way, with me walking down the icy street to school, and the peacekeeper's van drives past me and turns a corner. I hear the crash, and run towards it, as usual. But when I fight my way through the crowd, I don't see my parents lying on the street. Next to the overturned van with the Capitol emblem on it, are the dead bodies of Ellis and the girl from District 3—the one who I personally killed. I'd gotten used to seeing by parents lying bloody and dismembered in the road, but this variation shocked me and it just makes the dream scarier.

Surprisingly, I feel much better in the morning, and I eat the last of the frog. "We're going to have to get more food," I say to Litta.

"Yeah," she agrees, "but how?"

"I can set some snares, but that won't get us anything until at least a couple hours have passed, but I bet we could use this waterfall to catch some fish." I then explain to her how to construct a simple trap for catching fish in a waterfall. Basically, a good amount of sticks have to be tied together into a box form with some spaces in between them. The spaces have to be large enough to let the small fish through, but keep the ones large enough to eat. When it's held under the waterfall, the water goes straight through the holes, and any fish that are falling down the waterfall land in the box.

"Good idea," says Litta. "We have something very similar in District 4; I bet I could make one of those." We head out of the cave, making sure to keep our hoods tightly clenched around our faces so the water can't get to our hair and freeze there. I start looking for relatively straight sticks in the wooded area about twenty meters from the waterfall. I've gathered a few when the first icicle falls.

_Shook! _I hear a strange sound and look around. Then my eyes widen as they fall on the source of the noise: a three-foot-tall icicle half buried in the snow less than a meter away from me. Its edges are unnaturally sharp. I step away from it—maybe the tree it fell from is harboring more icicles of its size. _Shook! _Another icicle falls—this time clipping off a piece of my parka with it. I start to run. _Shook! Shook! Shook! _More and more icicles—just as razor-sharp as the first—are falling as I try to dodge their assault.

"Litta!" I scream. "Litta, help!" _Shook! Shook!_ One icicle grazes my hand as it plummets, leaving a bleeding gash.

"I'm coming Freia!" I hear Litta yell from behind me. But then she gives a high-pitched scream as an icicle almost hits her. Why did I have to call her over here? She could get killed as easily as me. _Shook! Shook! Shook! Shook! _We keep running through the forest trying to dodge the plunging icicles. We're in an unrecognizable area when I finally don't hear the noises of falling ice anymore.

It takes minutes before I have enough breath to talk. "I've never seen so many icicles before!"

"That's because they weren't real," says Litta matter-of-factly.

"What?" I'm confused—they seemed like real ice to me.

"They were created by the Capitol and strategically placed to give the Games some excitement," she explains. "You must have been in an area of the woods armed with icicles and triggered an attack somehow."

"Wow," I say, "so I guess nothing in this arena is real, then."

"Right," agrees Litta. "It's completely Capitol-made. The Gamemakers just sit in a control room and make things happen in the arena. And there're also millions of cameras following our every move. They're hidden in certain places in the arena. Didn't your escort tell you that?"

"No…." I don't remember Decima telling me anything of the sort. I mean, I knew the Hunger Games were going to be televised, but the idea of cameras just never entered my mind.

Litta continues. "Even the deaths are manufactured by the Capitol. Do you really think any one of us tributes wants to kill one another? We're just forced into this Game by the Capitol. The Capitol is killing us—we're not murderers."

We're not murderers. Of course—I can't believe I have already forgotten everything that Grandpa had told me. His words run through my mind again, "This is the Capitol we're dealing with. You don't have _any_ idea what they're up to—none of us do. Trust me, the only way to survive is not to trust any of _them_." And now I know that I should have nothing against deep voice and Lulu for killing Ellis, and I should have nothing against myself, because I am not a murderer. The Capitol is my real enemy, but I know from experience that they are hard to fight against.

* * *

**Wow, my chapters are definitely getting longer. Review please!**


	27. Back to the Sea

We've been lead far off course by the icicles. The stream and the waterfall are nowhere in sight, and this part of the forest is unrecognizable. The trees are much denser here, so not as much snow is on the ground. The roof of intertwined pine needles and branches allows only an inch or two of snow to coat the forest floor. But the air is still just as cold as it was back where we came from.

"Let's turn around and follow our footprints back," I say to Litta. The one good thing about a snow-covered ground is you can never get lost. But Litta doesn't seem to be listening to me—she's glancing around up into the trees. I tap her on the arm.

"What?" she asks, startled. I repeat what I had said. "Yes, yes. That's a good idea. But…." She trails off.

"But what?" Why is Litta acting like this?

"There's someone else here," Litta whispers. "Someone is following us; I can sense them. We have to be very careful." I nod. I have learned to trust Litta's instincts—they always seem to be right. When she was so confident Douglas and the boy from 7 weren't following me; when she heard the large group of tributes outside the cave long before I did; and now, when there must be someone very close by.

I take out my pocketknife and hold it in my ungloved hand, so I can have a better grip. My fingers turn red and then white quickly as the cold sets in. We walk in the path through the snow our boots made when we were running. I keep glancing around me trying to spot another human, but so far, all I see are me and Litta. I can tell this area of the forest would be good for hunting if we had time because the trees are alive with birds and other animals. They're making rustling noises in the needles above my head.

Suddenly, Litta takes a sharp breath of air. She stops walking abruptly, and starts to whisper to me. "The trees! They're in the—" Then her words turn into a scream. Litta is knocked to the ground by something falling from the tree above her. I realize then that the rustling sounds I had been hearing were not small animals—another tribute had been following us.

The girl who had jumped from the tree—from District 8 judging by the patch on the arm of her jacket—is trying to hold Litta still while reaching for a knife. She has a whole belt with dozens of knives attached. Litta is struggling, but soon I know she will give up.

"Freia!" she yells between screams. "Help me!" I waste no time, and grab the District 8 girl around the neck. I lock my arms under her chin and try to pull her up off of Litta. The girl tries to shake me off, but I'm holding on too tightly. Then I feel a piercing pain in my hand, and let go quickly. She bit me! And just as soon as I've released her, she turns around and knocks me to the ground.

_Klonk! _My head hits a rock, and I almost black out. My eyes roll back in my head, and I know that I won't be able to do anything to stop her from killing me now. I feel my limbs go slack, and I close my eyes. But then the District 8 girl's grip on me loosens. Why, does she think I'm already dead? Maybe I look so close to death that she can't even tell I'm alive. I will myself to stay still. She might leave me alone if I look dead enough.

But then I hear the scream. The high, blood-curdling scream of someone being killed, and it's a scream I recognize. It's Litta's.

"NO!" yell, and sit up, which sends the world swooping up and down before my eyes. The girl from 8 whips around and sees me. But I don't care if she knows I'm still alive—she just killed Litta. Trying to ignore my dizziness, I fumble for my pocketknife, and send it straight at her neck. It pierces her skin, and she starts to choke on her own blood. I'm not steady enough to walk yet, so I crawl over to where Litta is lying. But with the dizziness and the tears, I can barely see where I'm going.

I push the body of the girl from District 8 out of the way, and collapse next to Litta. She has a knife gash across her face, but it's not even that deep.

"Don't worry, Litta," I choke out, "you're going to be fine. I can fix up your face easily." But Litta doesn't say anything; she just points to her side. And then I see why all the snow around her is stained a brilliant red, and why her face looks so pale and sickly. There's a big stab wound on her left side, and it's leaking blood at an alarming rate. It's no use now telling her that it'll be okay—we'd both know I would be lying. I sit there, hunched over Litta's body, sobbing, as her breaths get shorter, and the length in between them longer.

"Water," Litta whispers. Water's not going to do her any good at this point, but I take out my canteen, unscrew the lid, and hold it to her lips. But Litta doesn't drink. With the last bit of her strength, she raises one arm and dips her fingers into the freezing liquid. She drips some of it over her face, and smiles. Now I understand—and the words of Litta's song come back to me: _Wherever you may go, eventually you'll find the sea. _In the middle of this ice-covered arena—the farthest place possible from a warm beach—Litta has found the sea in the water of my canteen.

I start to talk to her. "The ocean, Litta. You're almost there—just think. You're going back to the sea, out of this place…." Litta swirls her hand in the water, sighs one more time, and then her cannon booms.

* * *

**I'm sorry everyone! I'm so sorry Litta had to die-she was one of my favorite characters. But the Hunger Games has to stay realistic, and Litta wasn't really a strong tribute. Plus I like writing sad stories!**

**1. District 6 female-killed by District 5 female  
**

**2. District 5 male-killed by District 5 female  
**

**3. District 9 male-killed by District 7 male**

**4. District 1 female-unknown**

**5. District 2 male-unknown  
**

**6. District 5 female-unknown  
**

**7. District 6 male-unknown  
**

**8. District 8 male-unknown  
**

**9. District 11 female-unknown  
**

**10. District 11 male-unknown**

**11. District 3 female-killed by Freia**

******12. Ellis-killed by deep voice**  


**13. Litta-killed by District 8 female  
**

**14. District 8 female-killed by Freia  
**


	28. On the Offense

"Goodbye, Litta," I whisper, and stand up. I retrieve my pocketknife from the District 8 girl's neck, and also take her belt of knives—they will definitely come in handy. I can't stay here any more; I can't keep looking at Litta lying limp in the bloodstained snow. So I take off running—I don't even know in what direction—just to move away from my grief.

I don't make it far. Tears start to cloud my vision again, and my breath—already ragged from running—starts to come in hiccups. I collapse at the base of a large tree and start sobbing. I know I sound like a large, dying animal, but I don't care at this point. Let the other tributes find me—let them kill me here and now.

But no one comes, and after a couple of hours or so, all the water in my body has left through my eyes, and my throat is sore and hoarse. It's starting to get dark out, too. I pull myself up off the ground, shake the snow off of my clothes, and try to think of a good place to spend the night. There's no way I'm going back to the cave under the waterfall. Theoretically, I could simply follow my footsteps back, but that would take at least a couple of hours, and the light is fading fast. But really, I don't want to go back because that place harbors too many memories—especially those of Litta.

So I just climb the nearest tree and hope I don't freeze to death overnight. I'm just getting settled on a large branch about five meters above the ground, when something from above catches my attention. Something a fluorescent red color is nestled in the pine needles a meter above my head. I know nothing in nature occurs in that bright a color—it must be made in the Capitol. I climb farther up the tree to get a good look at whatever it is.

It's a large backpack—I remember seeing similar ones in other fluorescent colors at the cornucopia. I can't be the one that held a tent, because I remember that one to be green, but this pack must also hold something useful. But why would a tribute just leave a backpack lying around? Aren't they afraid someone, like me, would come and steal it? Perhaps they didn't want whatever was inside it. Or maybe it was too heavy to carry around. Maybe they left it here expecting to come back….

Then the answer hits me—this red pack had belonged to the District 8 girl, the one who just killed Litta. She traveled around in the treetops, and when she started stalking Litta and me, she left it here, concealed within the branches, until she would come back. But the girl from 8 never will come back—I made sure of that.

I unzip the largest pouch of the backpack, and to my surprise and joy, I find a sleeping bag! It's an insulated one that zips completely shut—it will keep out even the coldest night drafts. Excitedly, I unzip the other, smaller pockets of the pack and find strips of dried meat, four and a half small rolls, and a spool of fishing line. Wow, I could last days on the food alone, and I will be able to fish with the line. Now if only I can find my stream again….

But the arena is completely shrouded in darkness now. I eat the half a roll (which I assume the District 8 girl had partially finished before leaving to follow us) and a strip of meat to satisfy my hunger. I crawl into the sleeping bag, which turns out to be even warmer than I assumed it would be, and zip myself up, leaving only a little gap so I can see the sky.

The recap comes on starting with the Capitol anthem. The first picture I see is of Litta, and I almost have to turn away. But just as quickly, the face of the girl from District 7 replaces her. Then they show the girl from 8, and then the sky darkens with a flourish of music. I feel warm and relatively safe in my sleeping bag up in this tree, but my mind won't let me fall asleep yet.

Thoughts of my short alliance with Litta flood my brain. Funnily, I had never even considered that eventually one of us would have to die. I mean, the Hunger Games can only have one winner, the Capitol made that clear. If we both made it to the final two, one of us would have to kill each other. In a way, it's almost better that Litta was killed now, so I wouldn't have to live with the guilt of killing her, or she wouldn't have to live with the guilt of killing me.

And at least after today, I'm three tributes closer to going home. I try to recount all the deaths that have occurred so far: ten tributes died on the first day, I killed the girl from District 3 on the second, next was Ellis, and today Litta, the girl from 8, and apparently the girl from 7, too. That leaves nine tributes left in the arena. One is me; another is Douglas—Litta's district partner—and his ally, the boy from District 7. Then there are deep voice, the leader, and his second in command, Lulu. They're ruling over a group of about four other tributes.

If I want to go home anytime soon, I'm going to have to have an offensive strategy. I'm well fed, warm, and I have dangerous knives. I'm going to have to start hunting down and killing these tributes myself.

* * *

**1. District 6 female-killed by District 5 female  
**

**2. District 5 male-killed by District 5 female  
**

**3. District 9 male-killed by District 7 male**

**4. District 1 female-unknown**

**5. District 2 male-unknown  
**

**6. District 5 female-unknown  
**

**7. District 6 male-unknown  
**

**8. District 8 male-unknown  
**

**9. District 11 female-unknown  
**

**10. District 11 male-unknown**

**11. District 3 female-killed by Freia**

******12. Ellis-killed by deep voice**  


**13. Litta-killed by District 8 female  
**

**14. District 8 female-killed by Freia**

**15. District 7 female-unknown**


	29. Two Bears

**Sorry for the long delay between updates! I didn't have my computer with me over Thanksgiving break. But here's a new chapter finally. Oh, and can anyone see the reference to the Odyssey in the first sentence?  
**

* * *

Morning dawns with a rosy light, and I realize that for the first time since I entered the arena, I hadn't had my reoccurring nightmare this night. I'm very relieved, because I actually got a good night's sleep for once. I ration myself to half a strip of meat for breakfast, and start planning what to do next.

I have absolutely no idea where any of the tributes are; the arena is so huge. So I start to think: Where would a tribute head? Where did I go when I first entered the arena? Water—that was my first priority, and it's probably most tributes'. If I'm to go searching for other tributes, I should definitely try to find a water source where it's likely to run into them. But where do I find water? The stream and waterfall are way too far behind me to even consider going back, but there has to be some other pond or lake or something—the arena can't be all snow-covered trees.

I finally make my mind up to go downhill and search for a valley or something where water would most likely be. I consider traveling by means of the trees, like the girl from District 8 had done, but I think again and decide just to walk through the snow. I'll leave an easily traceable path with my footprints, but isn't meeting other tributes what I want? I'm well fed, warm, and armed—I'd win in a fight.

For hours, I walk downhill, but the scenery doesn't change. The arena around here is just miles and miles of evergreen trees, with some deciduous species interspersed. I nibble on a roll to pass the time; anyway, I can fish with the new roll of line when I find water.

I had hardly noticed it, but the ground must have been getting flatter and flatter as I was walking, because now there is not much incline at all. And then, to my delight, I see the sparkling of sunlight on water straight ahead of me. A creek, much wider than my original stream, lazily flows across the valley I've come into. The land is very flat here, which accounts for the slow speed of the water, except for one large hill off to my right about twenty meters away.

Then something to my left catches my eye. A dark lump is moving near the bank of the creek. I squint against the brightness of the snow—is that another tribute? The lump grows bigger; it's moving my way. Then it turns its head to the side, so I can see its profile. Short, stubby ears, a long snout—the lump is not a tribute, let alone a human; it's a bear!

My breath catches in my throat, and the bear focuses its eyes on me. It keeps plodding loser and closer to me. I'm scared stiff; the bear can obviously outrun me, out-climb me, out-swim me, and kill me before I can get a knife anywhere near its neck. There's nothing I can do but do what I did when I was seven—freeze. My gray eyes just keep staring into the black eyes of the bear.

Even in my fright, I have to suppress a laugh. Obviously, the gamemakers had chosen this bear to confront me because of my story at my interview before the Games. I had explained why I'm called "little black bear," and they must have remembered it and come up with this torture. If I had only said I was called "little butterfly," or something else of the likes! Although—I may have been attacked by stinging butterflies if I said that.

The bear stops about two meters in front of me. Way to close for my comfort. It's standing between the water and me, and I have to pass it in some way to get to the creek. But the only thing I can do now is wait. Which I've done before, though. Just like when I was seven, I can wait the bear out and hope it moves away first. I plant my feet firmly so not to loose my balance, and focus on not moving a muscle.

We stand there, the bear and I, for hours on end, just looking at each other. I know I can do this; I've done it before. I try to ignore the grumbling of my stomach and the freezing of my ungloved hands, because any movement might trigger an attack. The bear might think I'm threatening it. The sun is sinking quickly, and it turns the sky beautiful fiery colors. Then suddenly, with the disappearance of the last ray of light, the bear breaks eye contact, and turns around. As it lumbers away from me, I breathe a sigh of relief.

I still stand frozen in my place, partly to let the bear get some distance, and partly because I'm completely numb and can't actually move at all. The bear crosses the creek, which doesn't look too deep, climbs the hill, and disappears into a cave near the top. I guess that's where it lives. This spot of the river is too perfect to let up just because of a bear, so I pick a large oak tree far enough away from the bear's hill that I feel safe, and I make camp there.

I wonder how my family at home though of this incident with a bear. If I ever come back to see them again, I know I'll be teased about it for ages!


	30. Flight

**Again, sorry for the delay. I've had my first full week of school since September, and I've had absolutely no time to write!  
**

* * *

The next morning, I decide to start making some traps to catch food. The bread and meat I'd found in the dead girl's backpack will inevitably run out soon, so I have to hunt for more. I build a couple snares in places I'll remember so I can check them later. A figure-four snare by a low bush at the bank of the river, a twitch-up snare using a sapling tree, a squirrel trap leaning against a tree, and a few more. Then I eat my last roll.

I wait around for hours in a tree by the riverbank. At around noon, I have a small scare as I see the bear, which had confronted me yesterday, amble out of its cave and to the river. Then I relax when it doesn't even look my way. The bear sticks its hand in the water a few times, and soon catches a salmon! Maybe I should go fishing, too.

When the light of the day starts to get dimmer, I check my traps, and find that the squirrel trap has indeed caught a squirrel! Squirrel traps are simple. Squirrels are very lazy, and they will do anything not to have to climb a tree vertically, so the squirrel trap is just a type of small twitch-up snare hanging above a slanted, wooden slat or branch leaning against a tree at about a 45-degree angle. The squirrel will decide to walk up the ramp instead of climbing the tree an extra half a foot, into the noose, and then it's dinner!

I build a fire and start roasting the squirrel. I don't need to worry about the smoke anymore. To bring other tributes towards me is actually what I want now. Plus, the fire warms my face and hands, and it gives a cheerful glow to the icy arena. Before I go to sleep, I watch the sky. There have been no deaths today, which means there should be more soon to keep the audience excited.

I wake up in the morning, and check my snares again. Two rabbits are waiting for me. I cook them, but don't eat them all, because I will have to save their meat for later. Again, I see the bear saunter down the hill to the creek, but it doesn't frighten me this time, because it hasn't came close to me—or acknowledged me at all—since the first night I found this stream. And then it looks straight at me, and charges.

Panic floods through my body. This time standing still will do no good. I have a 400-pound bear sprinting at me; there's nothing I can do but run and hope I've gotten a good head start. I sprint parallel to the river, because I don't want to loose the water again. Fortunately, I picked up my backpack with all my food and supplies, but it's definitely slowing me down. I can't look behind me, but I know the bear's still following me because I can hear its heavy breathing and its paws hitting the snow covered ground.

My legs feel as if they're on fire, even though it's well below freezing. There's no way I can keep up running much longer, because my breathing is getting very irregular and my eyesight blurry. And the bear is catching up. I wonder what brought on this attack? The bear had seemed so peaceful for the past day and a half.

I was so foolish to think I could outrun a bear. It's less than five meters behind me now, and I make a final decision. I use the last strength left in my burning legs, and I vault myself into the river. When I plunge into the icy water, the air is sucked from my lungs, and I black out for a second. But when I regain my sight, I realize that I'm sinking. The weight of the backpack, all my clothes, and myself combined must be almost 200 pounds. The only way to save myself from drowning is to let go of my backpack, even though it contains my sleeping bag, fishing line, and two rabbits. Just before my nose goes underwater, I drop the backpack into the depths of the river.

I splutter above water, and catch my breath. Even though I'm relatively safe from drowning at the moment, I must immediately get out of the water. I doggy-paddle closer to one edge of the rushing stream, and finally, my feet touch land. I anchor my boots on the muddy river bottom, and push myself closer to the bank. A few minutes later, sodden and freezing, I crawl up onto the snow. Fortunately, the bear is nowhere to be seen, but I'm nowhere near safe even now.

All my clothes are completely saturated with water. If I don't dry them out, it's going to freeze, and I'll turn into a human ice cube. So I do the unimaginable—I strip down to my underwear in the freezing air. Then I build a large fire, assemble my items of clothing around it, and hope the heat of the burning wood dries them out quickly.

Ten minutes later, I can't stand it any longer, and I pull on all my layers again. Some things, like my boots are still slightly soggy, but other things, like my socks, are toasty warm. I extinguish the fire, but now I feel hopeless. All I've salvaged from my supplies is the belt of knives, which was attached around my hips. My entire backpack is now sitting at the bottom of the creek.

Then I see a faint light coming from slightly farther into the woods on my side of the stream. It's someone else's fire! Now I hear voices and scuffling, too. I walk closer to the source of the light and sound, and climb a large tree close by. I look down from the branches, and survey the scene I've stumbled upon. It's deep voice, Lulu, and their group of tributes!

* * *

**Please review!**


	31. Seven Tributes

That's it—that's why the bear had suddenly changed its attitude and chased me—it was just a trick by the gamemakers to drive tributes closer together. There was a lull in deaths for a couple days, so the audience must have been getting bored. But now, they won't have to, because I'm going to find a way to kill at least one of these tributes. It will be one less person standing in my way of going home.

From what I can see from my perch in an evergreen tree, deep voice and his tribe have set up camp in a clearing in the woods close to the river. There are two tents assembled around a fire. I guess, like me, they think that they don't have to worry about being attacked by another tribute, because they have strength in number and weaponry. I'm not really sure yet how I'm going to kill them. I obviously can't take them all at once, because that would be six against one. I guess I'll have to wait for inspiration to strike.

Deep voice and Lulu are sitting on a log in front of the fire, while the four other tributes they're ruling over huddle close together on the ground. I keep watching as Lulu says something to deep voice and he laughs. Suddenly, a large pile of snow from an overhanging branch plops down to the ground; and with a hiss, the fire goes out.

"Damn it!" swears deep voice. "I'll have to get the fire going again." He points to one of his tribe—a small girl no older than twelve. "You—go find some kindling." Then he turns towards the boy sitting next to her. "And you—get another big log."

The two tributes hustle off towards opposite side of the clearing. The boy is jogging nearer and nearer to my tree. I quiet my breathing, and wait, silently. This is just the kind of thing I need—a way to split up the group. I crouch in the tree as the boy walks even closer to me with his eyes on the ground looking for fallen branches, oblivious to the danger he's in. Now he's directly under me—this moment is my only chance.

I unsheathe one of the knives from my belt, whisper, "Sorry," and hurl the knife downwards. The 20-centimeter knife sticks into his back up to the hilt. A perfect hit. The boy doesn't even scream; his death came so suddenly. But his breath catches in his throat, and he slumps to the ground. The cannon booms—seven more tributes until I can go home.

Back in the clearing, I can see the four remaining tributes visibly stiffen and sit up alert. Lulu grabs deep voice's arm.

"Yohan, did you hear that?" she asks deep voice. I guess Yohan is his name.

"Yeah, someone must have died," he answers.

"Who d'you think it was?"

"I dunno," Yohan says, "it doesn't really matter."

Then the sky above me darkens, and I look up through the tree branches and pine needles. A hovercraft as come to take the body of the boy I killed away. He begins to rise from the ground pulled by an invisible force, until he reaches the hovercraft, and it disappears. Luckily, the knife stuck so well into his back, that not a drop of blood was spilled. Yohan and Lulu will never know how he died, and therefore never know that I'm here, watching them.

About ten minutes go by, the little girl has come back with an armful of small sticks, Yohan has started the fire again, and still the dead boy hasn't returned from the woods.

"Where's Angus?" asks one of the tribe members in a wavering voice.

"He'll be back soon," reassures Lulu, although she looks worried, too.

A few minutes of silence pass, and then Yohan jumps up, and yells, "He's dead—don't pretend like you don't all know it! Who do you think that cannon was for!"

The three remaining tributes and Lulu flinch at his outburst. Lulu stands up and tries to calm Yohan down, but he keeps on yelling at them.

"And it's not because our alliance isn't safe—Angus left us, and that's why he's dead now! It's the rest of the arena that's not safe. Now don't any of you think about leaving, because if you do, you'll end just like Angus!"

My ears ring in the silence his shouting has left. The little girl, who had fetched the kindling, looks like she's crying, and Lulu is talking quietly to Yohan. His eyes are darting quickly around, and I think he suspects that there's an enemy tribute around, aiming to slaughter him. That is true, but I haven't thought of a way to kill him yet because unlike Angus, he's strong and very skilled with a spear.

When night falls, I try to conserve body heat by bringing my knees up into my coat, but it's nothing like being in a sleeping bag. Yohan crawls into one tent, and Lulu and the others into the second. Even Lulu, the second in command, is not important enough to get her own tent to sleep in.

I see Angus's face in the sky tonight. He's from District 10, like Lulu. Even though I know I killed him—and not even out of self defense—the only thing going through my head is: only seven tributes left to go, only seven tributes, seven tributes….

* * *

**1. District 6 female-killed by District 5 female  
**

**2. District 5 male-killed by District 5 female  
**

**3. District 9 male-killed by District 7 male**

**4. District 1 female-unknown**

**5. District 2 male-unknown  
**

**6. District 5 female-unknown  
**

**7. District 6 male-unknown  
**

**8. District 8 male-unknown  
**

**9. District 11 female-unknown  
**

**10. District 11 male-unknown**

**11. District 3 female-killed by Freia**

******12. Ellis-killed by Yohan**  


**13. Litta-killed by District 8 female  
**

**14. District 8 female-killed by Freia**

**15. District 7 female-unknown**

**16. Angus-killed by Freia  
**


	32. Sponsor

The grumbling of my stomach wakes me in the morning, and without opening my eyes, I reach for my backpack in order to get some breakfast. My hands only touch empty air, and then I remember that my backpack, along with my sleeping bag, fishing line, and rabbits, is lying at the bottom of the river. I take a sip of water from my canteen, which is warm from staying in my parka pocket, to try and satiate my hunger.

While the sky lightens, I sit still in my tree and watch what's going on in Yohan's camp. A couple minutes later, I see Yohan crawl out of his tent. He looks around at the empty clearing for a moment, and then rips open the door to the other tent, shouting, "Get up everyone; you have to get a fire going and make breakfast!"

Lulu and the three members of the tribe quickly crawl out of their tent, looking pretty shaken, and hurry about gathering wood and kindling. Yohan must have a store of food in his tent, because he brings out a couple of eggs, and when the fire is going, they all fry them on a flat sheep of metal. The delightful smell of eggs wafts up to my perch in the tree, and I fight the urge to jump down and grab a few fried eggs for myself. But that would obviously get me killed. Years before the attempted rebellion, eggs were a common find in District 12—many people owned chickens and sold their eggs at the local market. But now, since the Capitol is controlling food production, eggs are a treat when we can get a hold of them.

There's still something confusing me, though, about Yohan, Lulu, and their tribe of younger tributes. All they've been doing for the time I've been watching them is sitting around the fire, eating or talking, or gathering more wood to make the fire bigger. They obviously have enough food, so they don't need to hunt, and Yohan is very skilled with a spear, but they're not hunting down other tributes. If I was in their situation (which I was before I lost my backpack with all my supplies), I would be trying to kill off the rest of the tributes before I was killed first. But it seems though all they're doing is trying to survive. It's all very puzzling, but at least they're not actively trying to kill me.

I stay in my tree all day. I can't move closer to Yohan's camp for fear of being spotted, but I don't want to loose them because I do want to find a way to kill them. I have no food, but I throw a couple pine needles into my canteen to give the water some taste. With nothing to do, I try to figure out just how long I've been in the arena. Judging by all the rips and stains on my clothes, the scratches on my exposed skin, and my matted hair caked with leaves, it seems as if I've been living here for months, which can't be true. But I try to count back on my fingers all the nights in the arena, and although I can't remember exactly, I estimate it's been about a week.

I'm feeling very cramped now, since I've been sitting in the same position in my tree for about two days. I haven't even needed to use the bathroom (or the ground in my case) since I haven't been eating either, and I don't think it's a good thing. So I decide to climb a bit higher in my tree to find a more comfortable waiting place and a higher vantage point.

But as soon as I raise my body up on my legs, I feel a horrible rushing in my head, and my vision blurs. This sudden bout of dizziness causes me to almost fall out of the tree as my legs give away, but I manage to catch myself before I do. I need food. I am definitely feeling the effects of hunger now, and I don't know how long I'll be able to go without food, and no way of catching any. I have no supplies to make snares, and while my knife throwing skills are good enough to hit a still target at close range, I could never hit a fast moving rabbit or squirrel. And even then, I wouldn't be able to make a fire because I'm so close to other tributes.

I manage to wait a few more hours without focusing on my hunger too much, but in the evening, my stomach gets the best of me. "Food…" I moan, no louder than a whisper. I have no idea how that would help me, though—no one would hear me, and if someone did, they'd probably rather kill me than hand me a loaf of bread.

Then I see something through the branches of my tree: a piece of silver cloth floating down through the air like a leaf in autumn. A parachute—I have sponsors! I suddenly remember Decima telling me about sponsors back before the Hunger Games started. If the Capitol citizens, or people back in District 12, believe I have a good chance of winning the Games, or are just rooting for me, they can send in money which will be used to buy things I may need and sent to me in the arena.

The parachute and the container attached to it comes to rest on the large branch I'm sitting on, just a few feet in front of me. I move forward on all fours towards it, but I have to stop every few seconds to give my limbs a rest, and because I'm so light headed. After what seems like an hour, I have the package securely in my arms. I tear the parachute off, untie the string with shaking hands, and open my package.

A basket of hard-boiled eggs sits in my lap!

* * *

**Review? Don't worry, the next chapter will be very exciting!**


	33. Plan of Action

As much as I want to, I don't stuff all of the eggs into my mouth at once. I count twenty-four in all, and I limit myself to four as of now. The rest I pack back up into the basket, and attach them to the branch above me in the tree. I wonder who was thinking of me, who sent this meal. Was it a fan in the Capitol? Or maybe someone from back home in District 12—maybe even one of my family.

I go to sleep with my stomach full, thanks to whoever was kind enough to give me the eggs. When the morning of my third day in this tree dawns, I decide to actively think of a plan to get rid of the tributes I have been watching. I need to kill them in some way, but how? Obviously, I can't just barge in on Yohan and his tribe's camp—I'll get killed. Even though I could definitely kill one of the small tributes easily, Yohan with his spear poses a problem. Also, I'm not sure that I can take the whole group of them at once. Separately, yes, but they haven't separated since Angus was killed. I need a force much stronger than myself to take them out.

And then I realize—I have one. I do know of a force in the arena, not that far away that could kill five tributes very easily, because it almost killed me. The bear.

I spend the next hour or so calculating my plans and preparing. Yohan, Lulu, and the rest of the group are just waking up, and today they have a breakfast of apples and oranges. They are oblivious that they are about to face death in just a few moments. Once I am sure my trap will work, I wait for the scheduled time to put in action. I know, from the days I spent on the riverbank, that the bear always came to fish in the river at around 10 o'clock in the morning. When I judge that the sun is almost in that position, which is kind of hard, because the sky is overcast, I begin.

I strip off down to my underwear, but leave my boots on. Shivering, I secure the rest of my clothes next to the eggs in the tree. I plan to return after I'm done. I take a deep breath, and jump down from the tree. Then, making as much noise as possible, I stumble to the edge of Yohan's camp. As I had predicted, all heads turn towards me. The three tribe members look absolutely terrified, but Yohan stands up and yells, just as I'd guessed, "There's the one who killed your friends! Get her!"

The three tiny tributes pick up fire-hardened, sharpened sticks, and sprint towards me. Yohan is following closely behind, brandishing a spear, and Lulu follows him with a bow and arrows. I turn around and run in the direction of the river. I'm a fairly fast runner, so I don't sprint to make sure they still follow me. But just as I break out of the woods and into the clearing that surrounds the riverbank, I feel a sharp pain in my arm.

"Ah!" I gasp, and glance at my left shoulder. My long underwear is ripped, and there is a new gash on my upper arm, which is bleeding pretty heavily. I see a shaft with feathers on the tip sticking out of the snow a few meters ahead of me. Lulu must have shot at me. I try not to look at my cut, and keep my eyes in front of me, focused on the hill I'm running to.

I only have about three hundred meters to go, and just as I had calculated earlier, I see a large, dark figure bending down near the bank of the creek. The bear is catching its mid-morning meal of salmon. Quickly, I turn my head around to see how far behind Yohan and the rest are. They are maybe fifty meters in back of me—perfect.

I keep running with my eyes on my destination. Only two hundred meters to go, then one hundred. When I get close enough, the bear turns its head and looks at me. Its black eyes are staring deep into my mind—and I feel like it can tell what it is I'm about to do. Its expression seems like it's judging me. "I'm not a murderer," I want to yell at it, "I just want to go home!" But I can't because I'm running, and I need all my breath and strength.

Just a few meters in front of the bear, I slow down. I can hear the yells and footfalls of the five tributes chasing me. They think I have nowhere to go—that I'm trapped between a death to the teeth and claws of a wild animal and a death to the spears and arrows of other children. But I know something they don't, and just as Yohan prepares to launch his spear into my heart, and just as the bear opens its jaws, I jump into the freezing water of the river.

I'm much more prepared for the shock of the water my second time doing this, and I'm not as scared of drowning. I close my eyes, but I can't close my ears to the screams of Yohan, Lulu, and the three innocent little twelve-year-olds as they are mauled to death by the bear. As I'm carried down the river by the rushing water, I have to keep convincing myself that I'm not a murderer.

* * *

**1. District 6 female-killed by District 5 female  
**

**2. District 5 male-killed by District 5 female  
**

**3. District 9 male-killed by District 7 male**

**4. District 1 female-unknown**

**5. District 2 male-unknown  
**

**6. District 5 female-unknown  
**

**7. District 6 male-unknown  
**

**8. District 8 male-unknown  
**

**9. District 11 female-unknown  
**

**10. District 11 male-unknown**

**11. District 3 female-killed by Freia**

******12. Ellis-killed by Yohan**  


**13. Litta-killed by District 8 female  
**

**14. District 8 female-killed by Freia**

**15. District 7 female-unknown**

**16. Angus-killed by Freia**

**17. Yohan-killed by a bear (planned by Freia)**

**18. Lulu****-killed by a bear (planned by Freia)**  


**19. Tribe member #1****-killed by a bear (planned by Freia)**  


**20. Tribe member #2****-killed by a bear (planned by Freia)**  


**21. Tribe member #3****-killed by a bear (planned by Freia)**  



	34. Announcement

I crawl out of the water when I see that I've reached the bank where I floated to last time. I walk slightly into the woods to find my tree again. It's a good thing I left most of my clothes here, because now I can immediately change into something warm. I put my pants, shirt, sweater, and jacket back on, and feel much better. I'm too tired, physically and emotionally, to do much else today, so I just wait in my tree, staring at nothing, for sundown. I eat a couple eggs, but my stomach still feels hollow.

In the evening, when the Capitol anthem starts to play, signaling the day's recap, I force myself to watch the pictures of the dead. I see the faces of Yohan, who was from District 1, the three young tributes, from Districts 2, 3, and 9, and Lulu, from District 10.

That's five tributes I've killed. No—I didn't kill them—the Capitol did, but I came up with the plan to use the bear. I can't believe that I lead five innocent children to their deaths! Wait—I have to stop thinking like this. This is just the type of thinking that Litta warned me about all those days ago. I can't let the Capitol get into my head—which is just what's happening.

For days I've had these two sides of my brain fighting against each other for control. One moment I'll be convinced I'm a murderer just like I was after I'd killed the girl from District 8 on the second day of the Games, but the next I'll be blaming everything on the Capitol. And after that, I'll be scolding myself for being an insensitive killer, and the next moment I'll become very homesick and vow to end the Games as soon as possible. Which can only be done by killing everyone else. Sometimes I think I'm going insane.

Just when I assume that the recap is over and the screen in the sky is about to flicker off, a voice catches my attention.

"Good evening remaining tributes!" It's the booming voice of Rex Sparkson, the interviewer from the Capitol. "Congratulations on advancing this far in the first annual Hunger Games. I hope you are all listening to this announcement, because it may be the difference between your life and death. Now—each one of you need something desperately, be it a material object, or just an opportunity. Therefore, you are invited to a feast. Courtesy of the Capitol, you will each be given what you need if you arrive at this feast. It will be held at the cornucopia at 9 o'clock sharp next morning. Good luck, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!"

Then, with a flourish of music, the Capitol emblem, which had been displayed in the sky throughout the message, disappears. A feast. This is something Decima hadn't told me about beforehand. Maybe it was supposed to be a surprise that even the escorts didn't know about. Anyway, I definitely need an opportunity. I have no idea where the other tributes are—the arena is so big, and there're only two others beside myself left, Douglas and the boy from District 7. This will provide me with a definite place to find them.

Maybe an end to the Games is in sight. I've been in the arena for what seems like so long that I think I've forgotten what home is like. To reassure myself, I try to picture the inside of my house; maybe it'll make me feel better, knowing I might be there soon. But I can't. As hard as I try to remember, all I can see in my mind is the vague outline of a room with a wooden table in the center. I can't even remember if the tablecloth, which Grandma had embroidered years ago, was blue or green or some other color entirely! This is really scaring me—I can't recall anything. What has the arena done to my mind?

I fall into a fitful sleep, and have my worst nightmare ever.

_I'm walking down a windy street, but I'm lost. The cracked, gray sidewalk and the buildings lining it are completely foreign to me. The gusts of wind are blisteringly cold against my face, and I can barely keep my eyes open, let alone walk forward. It seems as if I'm not moving anywhere even though I'm trying to move my feet faster and faster. _

_Then, to my right, I see a van parked by the curb. Good, a warm place to rest, I think to myself. I open the door to the driver's side, and get in the seat. It really is much warmer in there, and fortunately, no one else is inside. For some reason, I decide to start driving. Maybe I can get to whatever my destination is faster. I don't know how I learned to drive a car, but the motions come naturally as I put my hands on the wheel and press down on the pedal. _

_The van starts to move slowly down the street. This is easy, I think, I'm pretty good at driving. Then I start to go slightly faster. And faster. And faster still, until I'm speeding down the street. And I don't know how to stop the van. I'm really scared now, as the van screeches around corners, propelled by some force other than myself. I'm going way to fast to be safe._

_And then the van skids, and lurches forward. I'm thrown forwards and out of my seat. When my face presses against the front window, I look out and see my parents lying dead on the ground before me.  
_

_I've killed them this time.  
_

* * *

**Yay, we're getting very close to the end of the Games!**_  
_


	35. A Capitol Meal

**Finally-another chapter! Sorry that this was so delayed; I was REALLY busy with school and sports and other stuff. But now it's winter break, so I have much more time. Expect the end of the Games very soon...**

* * *

When I wake in the morning, the sun is surprisingly high in the sky already. I can't believe I've slept this long—usually my nightmares wake me earlier. I look at the sun through the snow-covered pine needles of my tree, trying to judge the time by its position. It's probably about half past 8 o'clock, maybe closer to 9.

"Oh!" I gasp. I'd completely forgotten-the feast is supposed to be at 9 o'clock sharp this morning! I desperately need a chance to end these Games once and for all—I need to kill the remaining tributes. Fumbling for my basket of eggs, I latch it onto my shoulders and jump down from my tree.

But as my feet hit the ground, I suddenly have doubts. Do I really need to go to this feast? I've told myself I have to go because I want to kill the boy from District 7 and Douglas, from District 4—and that makes me a murderer. I absolutely cannot be a murderer again! I can survive in the arena on my own, no matter how cold it is. I will not kill—I'm already horrible as it is for all the other tributes who died by my hands.

I turn right around and start to climb back up my tree towards safety. But I don't get far. A breeze starts to blow on my face, sending all my hair into my mouth and eyes. I drop my grip on the bark, and try to swipe my dark hair to the side so I can see where I'm going. Then the wind increases even more. Sharp, icy jets of air pummel my front so hard that I have to turn around to shield myself; I can't even keep my eyes open.

I'm hunched over, with my back turned to the oncoming freezing air, when the wind picks up even more. The haunting howling of the wind fills my ears, and it soon turns into a screaming sound as the ever increasing wind whips its way through the bare branches of trees, swirling the snow around into the air. And then the scariest thing happens—I can't feel the ground beneath my feet any more.

I'm not a very small person—average size and build—but even when I'm carrying a package of eggs, the wind is able to lift me off of my feet and carry me along with it, like I'm weightless. I'm moving forward at a very fast pace, but I can't see where I'm going because my hood has fallen over my eyes, which are tightly shut anyway. I feel like a snowflake, being tossed around like this. I think I've been turned completely upside down a few times, too. But there's nothing I can do but wait for the wind to stop.

And eventually, it does. I don't know how long I was carried, but at last I'm dropped into a large snow bank, when the wind abruptly dies down. I lie facedown, tasting the snow on my mouth, for at least five minutes, trying to stop my head from spinning. I think I lost my basket of eggs when I was turned upside down, because the basket is nowhere to be found. I pat my waist and find that my belt of knives is still there, thankfully. But that was no natural wind—it must have been created by the gamemakers—because when I look up out of the snow, I see the golden cornucopia glinting in the sun, just slightly more than 400 meters away.

The feast-it should start in just a few minutes, and the gamemakers must have assured that I'd be there on time. The Hunger Games could be over today if I take action. I can't believe that I almost decided not to come. I have to convince myself that I'm not a murderer—it's the Capitol that's forcing us to kill each other. But I did, just yesterday, trick five tributes into getting mauled by a bear...

The field in which the cornucopia is situated is so different from how I recall it from the first day of the Games. The inside of the cornucopia is picked clean, so it is just an empty, golden dome. But the most striking difference is that a new blanket of snow must have fallen while I was gone, and it covers up the bloodstains of the tributes who died here on the first day.

Then I see something changing. I squint my eyes, trying to look at the cornucopia, and see that the empty mouth of the metal structure is filling up with something. I run forwards a few meters, keeping a sharp lookout for other tributes, to get a better view. Now I can see clearly—the cornucopia is filling up with food. Platters of the most delicious, exotic, Capitol foods are rising up from the ground inside the cornucopia. I can make out a giant ham, a few tureens of what I expect to be soup, bowls of perfectly ripe fruit, and so much more! There's even a selection of desserts: plates of crumbly pastries, intricately frosted cakes, and a chocolate fountain. And all of this food is piled on gold-accented dishware, which in turn is resting on silken tablecloths, covering crystal tables.

I want this food so much—all I've had to eat for days is eggs. But then again, it disgusts me. When I look at the grandeur of the setup, I think of how, for most residents of the Capitol, this is what they eat everyday. And while they're enjoying their delicious meals, everyone in the districts is starving. They would happily eat just the _scraps _of this meal if they could.

And I have the whole thing at my disposal. I start to move toward the piles of food, drawn in by the delicious smells wafting in my direction. But then I stop short—two silhouetted figures are approaching from opposite ends of the field.

* * *

**By the way, I can see how many people are viewing my story and NOT reviewing. Review! It means a lot to me.**


	36. Almost Home

Apparently, Douglas and the District 7 boy's alliance had ended sometime between now and the last time I'd seen them—when I killed the girl from District 3. They both look tired and extremely hungry. The boy from District 7, who I can recognize by his darker complexion, is barely wearing a coat. All that's left of the identical parka we were all issued are the shoulders, one arm, and the hood. The rest looks like it had been torn away, possibly by some wild animal. He must be freezing. Douglas, although he seems to be relatively warm, looks very weak. His arm is shaking as he holds up his sword, and his cheeks are hollow and dark circles ring his eyes. I don't want to kill either of them, they look so pathetic. All I can hope for is that they either kill each other, or that they just drop dead on their own accord. I only need to get home.

But they don't even look at one another. When the boy from 7's eyes turn, and he notices the feast standing before them, he must completely forget about his ally-turned-enemy, because he immediately starts to sprint towards the food. Douglas sees this, drops his sword, and follows him. Relieved that they hadn't seen me, I watch them stuff their faces with the food as if they've never eaten before. Actually, judging by their conditions, they probably haven't eaten for days.

I guess I could just rush at them and kill both of them now, because I'm at such an advantage, but something stops me. These two tributes are so different from some of the others I've killed so far. Even though I dislike both of them (the boy from District 7 had almost killed me before, and Douglas mocked me before the chariot ride), they just look so weak and innocent right now. In my mind, they are closer to Litta or Angus, rather than the girl from District 8 who travelled in the trees, or Yohan and Lulu. How can I harm them when all they wanted was food? Isn't that what we all wanted?

But then again, I need to go home. I need to see my family—Grandpa, Grandma, and Sam. I promised Grandma that the moment in the storage room before I left for the Capitol wasn't the last time I'd see her. Now that I actually know what the Hunger Games is like, that promise seems like a great leap of faith. Who knows, maybe all the other tributes promised the same thing to their own families, and now they can't keep their vows. I feel like the traveller in my song that I sang so long ago. Especially the last two lines:

_I'll wait for you to come on home;_

_You'll be safe once you close the gate._

I feel horrible about having to kill these two helpless tributes, but I'm so close to being home right now. My family is waiting for me at home. They're watching me on television right at this moment, probably wondering why I'm doing nothing, when I have two easy kills to make, and then it'll be over. If I just get this over with, I can go home and be safe. For the rest of my life—victors of the Games don't have to be reaped again. I'll never have to witness the horrors that my past few weeks in the arena have brought me.

Then I hear a loud noise. I jerk my head up to see the gigantic pile of delicacies, so carefully arranged, come crashing down to the snow-covered ground. It seems as though Douglas has eaten his fill, and now he's ready to fight, because he raises a large, china platter, lifting it high above his head so that whatever was on it drips off the back, and brings it down hard on the other boy's head.

The porcelain breaks on contact with his forehead, and the boy from 7 falls backwards. Douglas grabs another utensil—a large spoon this time—and lashes out at his opponent again. But he's not fast enough. The District 7 boy rolls to the side, and quickly comes up standing. He then scrambles up the wreckage of food, dishes, silverware, and tables to get out of the way. But this proves difficult, because the tables must be extremely unstable. Also, most of them are already tipped from their collapse a few moments before.

Douglas follows him, and the tables can't take this extra weight. With another loud crash, they give way completely, and both boys are trapped under the crystal furniture. But Douglas, having only been part of the way up the structure when it collapsed, is able to struggle free. I can see, though, that he isn't completely unscathed. A large gash runs across his forehead—probably from broken crystal or china.

He raises his silver utensil and then brings it down. From the screams and groans of agony, I can tell he's found his mark—the boy from District 7.

The cannon booms. One to go.

* * *

**1. District 6 female-killed by District 5 female **

**2. District 5 male-killed by District 5 female **

**3. District 9 male-killed by District 7 male**

**4. District 1 female-unknown**

**5. District 2 male-unknown **

**6. District 5 female-unknown **

**7. District 6 male-unknown **

**8. District 8 male-unknown **

**9. District 11 female-unknown **

**10. District 11 male-unknown**

**11. District 3 female-killed by Freia**

******12. Ellis-killed by Yohan**

**13. Litta-killed by District 8 female **

**14. District 8 female-killed by Freia**

**15. District 7 female-unknown**

**16. Angus-killed by Freia**

**17. Yohan-killed by a bear (planned by Freia)**

**18. Lulu****-killed by a bear (planned by Freia)**

**19. Tribe member #1****-killed by a bear (planned by Freia)**

**20. Tribe member #2****-killed by a bear (planned by Freia)**

**21. Tribe member #3****-killed by a bear (planned by Freia)**

**22. District 7 male-killed by Douglas**


	37. The Jade-Handled Knife

After the hovercraft comes and picks up the body of the District 7 boy, Douglas turns, and his eyes fix directly on me. How can he see me from so far away? But there's nothing I can do but stand up, and unsheathe one of my knives. I'm going to end this thing once and for all—I'm going to go home.

We slowly walk towards each other across the snowy field. Douglas has discarded his spoon and now has a long carving knife in his hand, one that I saw laying next to the ham earlier. Then we stop, about ten meters away from each other, and just stare. Neither of us wants to make the first move in this fight, although we both know that it can't be avoided. This situation is reminding me of the bear—can I stare silently at Douglas until he randomly dies?

But then he raises his knife up and charges at me. I'm ready enough for this to raise up my own knife in time, though, and I block his attack. The impact of the blades sends tingles up my arms, and I almost lose my grip on the handle. Douglas takes another swipe at me, but I block it again. We fight like this for a long time. I'm mainly battling defensively, and I'm definitely getting tired.

Douglas slams his blade into mine with such a force, that this time, I drop my knife. The carving knife Douglas is fighting with hits my arm and slices into it. I let loose a bloodcurdling scream. My arm feels like its on fire, and the pain makes me double over. It's not only my arm that's hurting: Even though the injury is there, my head is throbbing, my legs feel weak, and my stomach is clenching up.

But I can't give up, not when I'm so close to going home. I can't use my right arm to hold a knife anymore, let alone use it to raise myself back up to my feet, so I turn around and head butt Douglas in the shins. This sends my head spinning uncontrollably, and my eyesight goes blurry, but thankfully it was just enough force to make Douglas fall to the ground as well. Before he can get up again, I crawl over to him and pin down his arms. I secure one with my good arm, and the other with a leg, so there's no way he can move enough to throw me off or get to his carving knife.

It turns out I didn't need to have such a firm hold on him, though. Douglas isn't going anywhere. The cut on his head, which he'd sustained from his previous fight with the boy from District 7, had been bleeding profusely throughout our battle, and now he's weakened by blood loss. Douglas's face is a pale, sickly color, and his eyes are rolling back in his head every couple of moments.

I loosen my grip on his arms, and kneel beside him. If I kill him now—which I definitely could—I will go home. I reach into my parka, to my knife belt, and pull out a nice knife. This one has a beautifully carved handle of solid jade. I hold it above Douglas's heart—all I need to do now is bring it down.

But I can't. When I look into Douglas's green eyes, I see Litta looking back at me. Maybe it's just a characteristic of District 4 citizens, but they look exactly the same. This is just how Litta looked when I knelt beside her as she died, although this time, I'm the killer. Tears well up in my eyes, and drip down my cheeks. I hope they don't freeze.

"Sorry," I whisper, just like I did to Angus, and try to move the knife downwards again. But it doesn't budge. I have it positioned, the handle held firmly in both my hands, with the tip just centimeters away from Douglas's heart. But I can't will myself to move it that extra distance. Douglas mumbles something, but I can't hear; it's too quiet.

"What?" I ask.

It must take all his remaining strength. "Just kill me," he manages to say.

I know it. It's what I have to do, and Douglas knows that, too. But the centimeters between my knife and his flesh seem like kilometers right now—I can't do it. I just sit there, holding the blade over his body, trembling and sobbing silently. Then his hands move.

Douglas's freezing, clammy hands reach up, and grab the jade handle of the knife just below where my hands are. My breath catches—is he going to turn the knife and kill me? He's just faking being so injured—this was all a plan on his part to get me so vulnerable. Now I'm an easy target. But I'm wrong.

Douglas grips the knife and plunges it downwards—into his own heart.

I immediately let go of the handle and scream. I've just witnessed someone kill themselves, and it's as bad—maybe even worse—than watching someone be killed by another, or even killing someone myself. I turn on my heels, and run away. Away from the blood, the tears, away from the death. I sprint into the woods.

Now my injured arm feels numb. In fact—my whole body feels numb. I could run forever, and it may take forever to get away from what just happened. Vaguely, I hear the cannon boom, and then the Capitol anthem starts playing. But I ignore them. I don't even know where I'm going, but it doesn't matter what direction as long as I get far away.

Then the sky above me darkens. A cloud perhaps, maybe it means more snow. I keep running, even though I can barely see ahead of me through the tears in my eyes and the hair whipping into my face. There's something in my way, but I can't make out exactly what it is. Probably just an overhanging vine. I run straight into whatever it is, and then I black out.

* * *

**The First Annual Hunger Games is finally over! What did you think? Review, please. Obviously, this isn't the end of this story-I still have many more chapters to write about Freia's second stay in the Capitol, and of course, her homecoming. Oh, and just in case you didn't understand it, the "cloud" in the last paragraph is the hovercraft, and the "vine" is the ladder that immobilizes the tribute, but Freia's vision was so blurry that she couldn't see it.**

**1. District 6 female-killed by District 5 female **

**2. District 5 male-killed by District 5 female **

**3. District 9 male-killed by District 7 male**

**4. District 1 female-unknown**

**5. District 2 male-unknown **

**6. District 5 female-unknown **

**7. District 6 male-unknown **

**8. District 8 male-unknown **

**9. District 11 female-unknown **

**10. District 11 male-unknown**

**11. District 3 female-killed by Freia**

******12. Ellis-killed by Yohan**

**13. Litta-killed by District 8 female **

**14. District 8 female-killed by Freia**

**15. District 7 female-unknown**

**16. Angus-killed by Freia**

**17. Yohan-killed by a bear (planned by Freia)**

**18. Lulu****-killed by a bear (planned by Freia)**

**19. Tribe member #1****-killed by a bear (planned by Freia)**

**20. Tribe member #2****-killed by a bear (planned by Freia)**

**21. Tribe member #3****-killed by a bear (planned by Freia)**

**22. District 7 male-killed by Douglas**

**23. Douglas-killed by himself**

**24. Freia-Victor**


	38. Safe

The first thing I see when I open my eyes is whiteness. And it's not the whiteness of a cloudy sky, or the whiteness of snow, both of which I would expect; it's the sterile whiteness of the Capitol. I'm back in my room in the District 12 quarters of the Training Center. I've gotten out of the arena—I did it—I'm safe. I lie on the warm, comfortable bed, staring at the white ceiling, and think about going home. In a few days, after the closing ceremonies, I will board the train going back to District 12. I'll see Grandpa, Grandma, and Sam, and everything will go back to normal—I will never have to go into the arena again.

I look over to my right and see that my arm is swathed in gauzy, white bandages. The cut must have been pretty deep. Then I realize how empty I feel. I haven't eaten since the night before the feast, and even that was just a couple of eggs. And I don't know how long I was unconscious, but it was probably at least a couple of days. I'm really hungry, but my room is not a kitchen, so I'll have to wait.

But then I remember—the buttons! Everything in the Capitol seems to be automated, and I remember how when I first stayed in this same room I was obsessed with finding all the buttons that controlled the room. And one of the buttons brought food. I turn over in my bed, wincing slightly as I move my arm, and press the food button, which is located on the wall right beside the bed.

"Rice with...with...that sauce," I say. I never knew what the sauce was called on the rice I had eaten while talking to Lucius so many days ago. But when it arrives a second later, steaming hot, I immediately recognize it as the right one. I prop myself up in bed, balance the platter on my knees, and take a huge bite. It tastes amazing, but doesn't stay down for long.

Right after I swallow, the bite of rice comes back up my throat, and I turn and vomit onto the white carpet. My head feels like its spinning now, and I lie back down in the bed and close my eyes to try to stop it. I guess I'm not used to food yet. Then I hear my door slide open, and I crack my eyes open a bit and see a girl in a tunic walk silently in. She's carrying cleaning supplies, and she kneels at my bedside to wipe up my mess. She then takes my tray of rice and sauce, holds up one finger as if to say, "I'll be back soon," and leaves. I wonder why she didn't talk to me.

And as she promised, the girl is back a few moments later with a bowl of broth and a spoon. She sets them on the bedside table and leaves again. I wait at least another half hour for my stomach to settle down, but then my hunger overwhelms me, and I grab the spoon and start slurping up the broth. I want to just eat the whole thing, but I know my stomach might not be able to take it even though it's lighter than rice and sauce, so I save about half for later.

I think I fall asleep again, because when I open my eyes, the sunlight is coming in from the small window at a different angle, and I'm staring into three pairs of unnaturally colored eyes. My prep team.

"FREIA!" Cloaca squeals. It makes me flinch; I'm not used to such sharp sounds right now. "You were absolutely _amazing _in the arena! None of my other friends thought you'd win, but I was rooting for you the whole time!"

"We're so proud of you," Rufus says.

"Yes," says Albina, " And now that you're the Victor, we have to concentrate on the closing ceremonies and the victory banquet."

"What?" I ask, groggily.

"The closing ceremonies and the victory banquet," Rufus starts to explain. "Tonight, in approximately six hours, you will be honored in a celebration commemorating this year's Games and your victory. Later, you will attend a feast in your honor at the president's palace. But first..." He goes on to explain the exact choreography of the ceremony tonight, and I kind of zone out.

"And now we have to remake you," says Cloaca. "No offense, but you look horrible."

"But no worries," Albina reassures me, "you'll look loads better after we're through with you."

They wheel a large mirror right into the center of my room and begin to fix me up. This is the first time I've actually looked at myself since before the Games. My hair must have at least been washed and untangled while I was unconscious, because it is straight and silky. But there are horrible circles under my eyes, and my cheeks are hollow. I've also lost a lot of weight.

Albina gently unwraps the bandages around my arm, and I see a thin, puckered, white line running down my skin. "We can easily fix that up with foundation," she tells me. I don't really care; I'm just glad they didn't have to amputate my whole arm.

After the prep team is done with me, I feel raw and tired, but finally clean. Now it's time for Lucius to see me so that we can discuss what I'll be wearing for the ceremony. When he comes in, I almost don't recognize him as he greets and hugs me. Lucius has grown a mustache! The last time I saw him, he was clean shaven, but now he has a handlebar mustache about five inches long in each direction.

"Speedy growth hair product," he tells me, noticing my staring. "So I've been thinking," Lucius starts, "we dress you in something that reflects on your time in the arena. I've created this wonderful dress that will turn you into a snow queen."

Oh no. I've already had enough snow to last me a lifetime.


	39. Good Dream

Decima DeCanter greets me with a huge grin at our early dinner, and I'm actually genuinely glad to see her again. I remember about how the other escorts had teased her about being stuck with District 12, so my winning must have made her very happy. We—Decima, Lucius, the prep team, and myself—are sitting at the dining table in the District 12 quarters. Even though I will be eating at the victory banquet, it's so late at night that Decima decided that I needed a bite to eat before the ceremonies since I hadn't eaten anything but half a bowl of broth.

Fortunately, my stomach is now able to hold down some food. I eat some delicious potato pancakes, which remind me of home. Potatoes were not native to District 12, but during the failed rebellion, they were introduced because of increased communications with other districts. They are a really hearty plant, able to take to almost any environment, so they thrived in my district. Grandma cooks amazing potato pancakes. I can't wait to see her, as well as everybody else back home.

At 5 o'clock it's time for me to get dressed in my "snow queen" costume. I had thought that the prep team was done with me already, but I was dead wrong. They had barely gotten started.

"That was only to get you clean," explains Rufus, when I inquire about what they had done earlier. "Now we have to do your makeup and hairdo."

Albina braids my hair so that it stays out of my face, but flows down my back. Cloaca trims my nails and paints each of them with a glittery, white polish. Rufus accentuates my eyes with dark eyeliner, and he glues on fake eyelashes with tiny, sparkling stones attached to each hair. He also applies a dark red lipstick to my mouth and dusts blush onto my cheeks. And as promised, Albina conceals the scar on my arm with a paste that matches my olive skin tone perfectly.

"There," Albina says, "you look beautiful. Now it's time for your dress."

"Ooh!" squeaks Cloaca. "You're going to love it! I even wanted it for myself."

"That's because you want every piece of clothing for yourself," scolds Albina. "But trust me, it is a very nice dress."

Lucius returns, and he's holding a large bundle of fabric. I slip my arms into the soft, white silk, and Cloaca buttons up the back. I look at myself in the mirror—it actually is a nice dress. It's sleeveless with an empire waist, and the skirt reaches down so that it just brushes the ground. The hems are all lined with tiny diamonds. If it didn't remind me so much of the freezing arena, I would say that Lucius actually did a good job this time. But snow is the last thing I want to think about right now.

"One more thing," says Lucius, and he reaches behind himself. Then he drapes something big, black, and so heavy I stagger slightly over my bare shoulders. "A bearskin!" he announces.

Obviously. I feel like I should have known this was coming. But I shift my weight to try to hold up the furry cape—at least it will keep me warm up on stage—the dress is kind of skimpy.

A couple minutes later, I'm situated underneath the same stage I had my interview on. I'm to rise through the ground when it's time for my entrance. From below, I hear the cheer of the audience. That must be the prep team arriving on the stage. A few seconds later, there's another round of applause—Lucius. Then a cheer for Decima; she must be really happy. Finally, but all too soon, I feel my platform start to rise.

When I ascend to the stage, the crowd gives the longest and loudest cheer yet. But I'm blinded by the bright lights, so I just smile and stumble over to the Victor's chair that's set up for me in the center of the stage. The president, President Niveus, whom I've only seen before on television and from afar at the chariot parade, strides over to me and places a golden crown on my head.

The next couple hours consist of an abbreviated rerun of the entire Hunger Games. I watch, thankful that I will never have to experience any of these events again once I return home, but I can't stop my eyes from filling up with tears when I see Litta die. Once is more than enough.

Afterwards, at the victory banquet, I'm so tired that all I can do is half-heartedly greet complete strangers and take repeated trips to the coffee table. There's so much food here. Tables upon tables stuffed with everything imaginable, and I just want to try all of it, but my eyelids keep slipping down.

A few hours later, at about midnight, Decima takes ahold of my arm. "Alright, Freia," she says, "you look tired. We should go back to the quarters anyway now, you have an interview tomorrow." I gratefully let her lead me out from the president's mansion and shoo excited Capitol citizens away. Back in the training center, I slip out of my dress and bearskin cape, and immediately collapse into sleep on my bed.

I dream of home that night.

_I'm sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace. I have a cup of something warm in my hands—tea, I think. Sam comes in and puts more wood on the fire, making sparks jump up the chimney. We have a saying in District 12 that the number of sparks in a fire built on the coldest day of the year indicates the number of new livestock born the following year. From this fire, I'd say that number would be pretty high. Grandpa walks by and ruffles my hair, and Grandma brings her rocking chair and sits next to me. This would just be maybe a normal Saturday—the day off from work—but it makes me feel immensely happy._

* * *

**Something very exciting is going to happen either in the next chapter or the one after, so keep reading!**


	40. Here To Stay

**Sorry! The exciting event that I promised in the last chapter actually won't come until the next chapter. That's because I got carried away**

**writing this chapter and wasn't able to fit it in. But I promise it will come soon!**

* * *

When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I think is that in less than twenty-four hours, I will be on the train home. No more fine clothing, no more expensive food, no more whiteness, but only the familiar things I love back in District 12. My final interview is in the early afternoon so that I can board the train by evening and be home by mid-morning the next day. I spend the early hours of today ordering exotic foods to my room (most of which I don't even eat) and staring out the window which looks over the city of the Capitol.

Lucius and the prep team arrive at noon to do my makeup and get me dressed. About half an hour later, I'm outfitted in a simple, golden frock. It's sleeveless and hugs tight to my body until it flares out at the waist and falls to just below my knees. My eyelids are dusted with gold, and my lips are also painted the same hue. Lucius places the crown I'd received yesterday on my head and says, "There. Now you look like the Victor."

But I don't want to look like the Victor. I've had enough of people fussing over me and congratulating me. Last night, at the victory banquet, I had at least five people try to kiss me! I don't want to be famous; I just want to go home and be left in peace. But I couldn't go home if I didn't win the Hunger Games. And winning the Games makes me the Victor. I'll have to deal with it until I arrive in District 12.

As I walk across the stage to begin my post-Games interview, I wave and smile to the audience as if I'm loving their applause and whistles. I sit in the same large, throne-like chair that I sat in last night, but it's been moved off to the side to make room for Rex Sparkson's chair. A few seconds later, he enters the stage, too, and there's a big round of applause, though it's not quite as loud as the cheering for me.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen," Rex says into his microphone, "to the final interview of the Victor of the First Annual Hunger Games: Freia Cowden!" Another deafening round of applause. This interview, unlike the first one before the Games will last at least ten minutes, maybe more depending on how the audience feels.

Rex turns to me to ask his first question. "So, Freia," he starts, and then pauses for effect, "we all were very attentively following your actions in the arena, but first, I would like to know of your thoughts on being the Victor. What were you feeling at the moment you learned that you won?"

Wow—the first question, and I'm completely stumped. It's not that I have no answer, it's that I was feeling so many things at the moment. I had just witnessed a suicide, I was scared, disturbed, blinded by tears and snow, homesick, and in the end, unconscious. I wasn't thinking about how I was feeling.

"Um," I answer, and my one word reverberates around the packed auditorium, "relieved?"

And it's a good enough answer, because the crowd starts to cheer loudly. Although, I bet if I'd said anything, they'd have the same enthusiastic reaction. Then one voice from the audience rises up above the others, shouting, "Sing, sing!"

Rex must hear it, too, because he tries to quiet the rest of the cheering crowd. "Excuse me?" he asks, in the direction of the voice.

"Sing your song, Freia! Sing!"

Then I realize what they're asking: they want me to sing the song that I had sung on one of my first days in the arena; the song that almost got me killed, but also the one that I taught to Litta. "Oh!" I exclaim, addressing the voice in the audience. "I'll sing it if you want me to."  
"Yes, yes!" says Rex, enthusiastically. "We'd all love to hear it again."

So I begin to sing. I don't have the best voice, but I can carry a tune pretty well, and I love music. When I reach the end of the song, I hold the last note for a long time, and when I let it go, the audience is silent for a moment. Then the auditorium erupts in applause.

"Brava!" yells Rex Sparkson above the noise. "Brava! That was a wonderful song." I smile and thank him. "I'm sure you're really excited to visit home and see your family," he continues, "but won't you also be eager to come back here when it's time?"

I stare at him blankly. "Back to the Capitol?"

"Yes, for the Victory Tour in half a year. And then for every year after that, you will act as the mentor for the District 12 tributes. Being a mentor is a very high honor, only bestowed to those who win the Hunger Games. You'll be visiting the Capitol so much it may be easier to live here to stay!"

No. I refuse to believe it—this can't be happening! I've waited for so long; I've endured an entire Hunger Games for this: just a chance to go home. I'd expected to simply be put on the train, dropped off at the District 12 station, and be left alone for the rest of my life. Now... Now I'm going to have to relive my experiences every single year. Memories that I want to forget will be forced upon me. I will never be home completely.

Now I understand exactly what it's like to be the traveler in my song. Although he fully expects to make it safely home, we never know if he actually does. In my case, I won't.


	41. Train Station

"Freia?" Rex asks. I've been silent for too long. "Freia?"

I regroup myself quickly, and answer, "Y-yes?" My interview, broadcasted across all of Panem, must continue, no matter how discouraged and hollow I feel inside right now. I manage to finish the interview without breaking into tears or curling up into a ball in the large chair, both of which I would really like to do. I wave my goodbyes at the cheering audience and finally leave the stage.

Only when I get to the wings of the stage do I break my composure. I ignore the waiting arms of Decima, Lucius, and the prep team, obviously wanting to congratulate me, and run to the elevator. I punch the button relentlessly, urging the machine to come even quicker. While I wait, I tear off my golden crown and toss it to the marble-tiled floor. There—I don't want it anymore—I don't want to be the Victor.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft _ding_. How awful that sound is now, so perfectly pitched, so automated, so Capitol. But I rush into the elevator anyway, and I press the button saying 12 before any of the members of my entourage can follow me. I sink down into the corner of the rising elevator and start to sob. I probably look like a fish, gasping, when it's pulled out of the water, but I don't care.

When I reach my floor, I just run into my small room and fling myself onto the bed. I lie there, on my stomach, feeling too depressed to do anything. I don't move even when Decima promises marinated steak and corn on the cob for a late lunch before my train ride. It's one of my favorite foods at the Capitol, but I know I will be eating a lot of it in the future anyway.

Finally, it's time to board the train back to District 12. Before I leave though, I open up my walk-in closet. I'd forgotten just how many outfits were in there, but after a few minutes of searching, I finally find it. My red, velvet reaping dress, now clean and not wrinkled. I put it on and immediately feel slightly better. At least I will have six months at home before I have to come back to the Capitol for the Victory Tour.

A few minutes later, I'm sitting on a small bench on the platform of the Capitol train station. It's an elevated platform, and outside, so a nice breeze blows through the air. A whistle blows—the train is arriving. The high-tech Capitol train, which I remember from traveling here after the reaping, slows into the station and stops. The doors don't open yet, though I'm standing right in front of them.

Then I hear the sound of footsteps. I look over to my right, and see that at least one door has opened. A procession of orange-clad, handcuffed people shuffle out of the train. They are being kept in order by a number of peacekeepers. Prisoners. I'd heard of this: after the districts fell, the Capitol hunted down all the major leaders of the rebellion, arrested them, and killed them. But I'd thought they'd given up on capturing all of them already, it being so long after the last battle.

The last of the prisoners steps off the train, and they continue walking into the elevator down from the platform. That's weird, I think I recognize someone. But how could I? These are prisoners, probably not even from my district. But that distinctive walk, the gray-white hair...

"Grandpa!" I scream.

His gray eyes turn to meet mine, and all my fears are confirmed: they are taking my grandpa away to be killed on the account of leading the rebellion. "Freia!" he yells back at me. "Freia, I'm sorry!" I sprint towards him, but a peacekeeper blocks me. I kick him in the shins, and he lets go; I must reach Grandpa before they take him away.

"No! They can't do this," I shriek, and manage to catch onto his arm. His hand encloses around mine, keeping me with him.

"Yes," he says, "they can. They were after me for years, and somehow they found out which mine I was working in. They raided it and took me as prisoner."

A peacekeeper has caught a hold of my other arm and is pulling me away. I'm stretched between Grandpa and the peacekeeper. "It's m-my f-fault!" I choke out through sobs. "In the interview, they asked me about my family, and I thought it was a safe topic. I'll never forgive myself now!"

"No," Grandpa says, decisively. "Nothing is your fault. You were just trying to survive, and no one can blame you for that. Just remember what I said!" He's almost reached the elevator now, and our grip on each other's hands is slipping. No! I will not lose Grandpa—I have survived the entire Hunger Games to reunite with my family, and I will not fail. But I can feel myself being tugged backwards by peacekeepers.

"Freia," yells Grandpa above the shouting of the peacekeepers and my crying, "remember that I love you no matter what!" Then our hands slip apart, and the elevator's doors snap shut. I've lost him.

* * *

**Exciting, yes? Was anyone actually expecting that?**


	42. The Worst Weapon

Then I go completely mad. I start attacking the peacekeepers; how could they do this to Grandpa? I lash out at anything I see, until I feel something prick into my upper arm and immobilize me. A tranquilizer of some sort, I think, before I slip into unconsciousness.

I wake up many hours later, and find that I'm strapped tightly to the bed in my room on the train. They're probably afraid I'll wreck the entire train. But I don't feel like doing that, in fact—I don't feel anything. I feel completely numb, like all the events that just happened happened to someone else, not me. When I reach home, I will find Grandpa, Grandma, and Sam happily waiting for me...

I doze off again, with nothing better to do, and when I awake again, the train has stopped. I'm home. The restraints that held me to the bed are gone, so I stand up and stretch. I run my fingers through my hair, knowing that I will have to look relatively presentable on account of the cameras documenting my return. As I step out of the doors and onto the platform, I wave vaguely at the cameras and the crowd of District 12 citizens. At least they don't cheer as loudly as the people in the Capitol.

After I push my way through the crowd, I start to run. I run through the familiar, dusty, gray streets of my district. The sky is a beautiful blue, and this would be the perfect day to go to the meadow. I pass shops I've known since I was a little kid, and the owners smile and wave at me, but I ignore them. I just want to see my own house again. I pass the school yard, and a couple blocks past that, I'm in the Seam. My house isn't that far now.

I run up the broken pavement of the pathway, and reach my doorstep. Finally, I put a hand on my doorknob and turn it. But the door doesn't budge. This is the right house—I would recognize it anywhere. The peeling sky-blue paint half covering wooden slats, the small dormer window in the attic, the crocheted curtains in the front windows.

"Freia," a voice says from behind me. I wheel around—it's Sam.

"Sam!" I yell, and run into his arms. I've never been so happy to see my older brother in my life. I'm crying, but this time it's out of happiness.

"I thought you'd come here," he tells me. "But we don't live here anymore."

"Why?" I ask, confused. "It's home."

"When you won the Games, they moved the whole family to a new house in the Victor's Village, a new section of town."

I don't want to move! I've always lived in this house; I have memories here. "We can always try and buy it back," I try to bargain. "Anyway, Grandma won't like it a bit; I know she won't part with the dining table."

"Freia," says Sam. "Grandma's gone."

"What?"

"Well," he pauses, and thinks about what to say. "Do you know what happened to Grandpa?"

"Yes."

"It was a mandatory viewing here—the execution. And afterwards, Grandma sat herself down in a chair and refused to move. She wouldn't eat, drink, or talk. She just willed herself to die."

Suddenly, all the events that have happened in the past couple weeks hit me with full force. I sink to the ground in despair. Before I left to go to the Capitol, I was living in a cozy home with a loving family consisting of Grandpa, Grandma, and Sam. Although it could have been better, I was content with the proceedings of my life. But now, I have killed eight other children and witnessed countless others die. I will have to return to the Capitol every year, and I will never even live in my own home anymore. But worst of all, I have no grandparents.

The Hunger Games did so much more damage to me than the physical strain of the arena. At least I could recover from hunger and cold. At least the gash on my arm is merely a scar now. But I don't think anything can fix my broken heart.

That night, I sleep in my new room in my new house in the Victor's Village. It is an atrocious house, filled with riches I will never need, so reminiscent of the Capitol. My life will never go back to normal, because this is the new normal. Perhaps it would have been better for me to die in the arena. That way, I wouldn't ever have to move to this new house, I wouldn't have to feel guilty about the children I've killed, and I wouldn't have to know about my grandparents. Being dead feel so much nicer than living in these conditions. If I died during the Games, maybe Litta would have won.

Litta. I thought that by leaving the arena, I wouldn't have to see any of the other tributes again. But that's not true. I see them every single night in my dreams. Sometimes it's a dream of Litta singing a traditional District 4 tune, but most of the time its a dream of gigantic bears chasing me, or the girl from District 8 stabbing my heart out with an icicle, or sometimes I'm just standing in emptiness with a blizzard roaring around me. There's no escape from the memories.

The Hunger Games is truly the worst possible weapon the Capitol could use against the districts. Worse than bombs, taxes, or starvation. The Games hurts people even deeper inside. It's hurt me so deeply that I won't ever recover.

* * *

**The End.**

**Yay (or not), that is the end of this story! I know it's not a happy ending, but how can a Hunger Games story ever have a happy ending? Thank you to everyone who read my story, and expecially to those who reviewed. I really appreciated your support. I just realized that I finished writing this story in just a little over two months, which is an EXTREMELY short amount of time. Therefore, I may decide to go back and revise it to make it better, because I know it's not even close to perfect. Or I might start writing a new story (I already have an idea).**


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